I 


ffi 


IlillliS 


liliiiiip^ 
■iii 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


^ 

^ 


By  August  Strindberg 


The  Inferno 

Zones  of  the  Spirit 

The  Son  of  a  Servant 


Auj^iist  StrindlKTi^. 
From  a  photoj^raph. 


JTHE 
SON  OF  A  SERVANT 


BY 


AUGUST    STRINDBERG 

AUTHOR    OF   "THE    INFERNO,"    "ZONES    OF    THE    SPIRIT,"    ETC. 


TRANSLATED  BY 

CLAUD  FIELD 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

HENRY  VACHER-BURCH 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW    YORK   AND    LONDON 

Ube  Iknicfterbocfter  press 
1913 


Copyright,  1913 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


•Cbe  Hinklserbocbcr  ipreea,  ■»««>  JSorh 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 
I. 

Fear  and  Hunger     .... 

PAGE 

I 

II. 

Breaking-In      ..... 

36 

III. 

Away  from  Home      .... 

51 

IV. 

Intercourse  with  the  Lower  Classes 

68 

V. 

Contact  with  the  Upper  Classes    . 

99 

VI. 

The  School  of  the  Cross 

124 

VII. 

First  Love        ..... 

156 

VIII. 

The  Spring  Thaw     .... 

188 

IX. 

With  Strangers        .... 

223 

X. 

Character  and  Destiny  . 

248 

Ul 


INTRODUCTION 

AUGUST  STRINDBERG  AS  NOVELIST 

From  the  Publication  of  "  The  Son  of  a  Servant" 
to  "  The  Inferno"  (1886-1896) 

A  CELEBRATED  Statesman  is  said  to  have  described  the  biography 
of  a  cardinal  as  being  like  the  Judgment  Day.  In  reading  August 
Strindberg's  autobiographical  writings,  as,  for  example,  his 
Inferno,  and  the  book  for  which  this  study  is  a  preface,  we  must 
remember  that  he  portrays  his  own  Judgment  Day.  And  as 
his  works  have  come  but  lately  before  the  great  British  public, 
it  may  be  well  to  consider  what  attitude  should  be  adopted  to- 
wards the  amazing  candour  of  his  self -revelation.  In  most 
provinces  of  life  other  than  the  comprehension  of  our  fellows, 
the  art  of  understanding  is  making  great  progress.  We  com- 
prehend new  phenomena  without  the  old  strain  upon  our  capacity 
for  readjusting  our  point  of  view.  But  do  we  equally  well 
understand  our  fellow-being  whose  way  of  life  is  not  ours?  We 
are  patient  towards  new  phases  of  philosophy,  new  discoveries 
in  science,  new  sociological  facts,  observed  in  other  lands;  but  in 
considering  an  abnormal  type  of  man  or  woman,  hasty  judgment 
or  a  too  contracted  outlook  is  still  liable  to  cloud  the  judgment. 
Now,  it  is  obvious  that  if  we  would  understand  any  worker 
who  has  accomplished  what  his  contemporaries  could  only 
attempt  to  do,  we  must  have  a  sufficiently  wide  knowledge  of 
his  work.  Neither  the  inconsequent  gossip  attaching  to  such  a 
personality,  nor  the  chance  perusal  of  a  problem-play,  affords 
an  adequate  basis  for  arriving  at  a  true  estimate  of  the  man. 
Few  writers  demand,  to  the  same  degree  as  August  Strrndberg, 
those  graces  of  judgment,  patience,  and  reverence.  And  for 
this  reason  first  of  all:  most  of  us  live  sheltered  lives.  They  are 
few  who  stand  in  the  heart  of  the  storm  made  by  Europe's 

V 


vi  Introduction 

progress.  Especially  is  this  true  in  Southern  Europe,  where 
tradition  holds  its  secular  sway,  where  such  a  moulding  energy 
as  constitutional  practice  exerts  its  influence  over  social  life, 
where  the  aims  and  ends  of  human  attainment  are  defined  and 
sanctioned  by  a  consciousness  developing  with  the  advancement 
of  civilisation.  There  is  often  engendered  under  such  conditions 
a  nervous  impatience  towards  those  who,  judged  from  behind 
the  sheltered  walls  of  orthodoxy,  are  more  or  less  exposed  to  the 
criticism  of  their  fellows.  The  fault  lies  in  yielding  to  this 
impatience.  The  proof  that  August  Strindberg  was  of  the  few 
who  must  stand  in  the  open,  and  suffer  the  full  force  of  all  the 
winds  that  blow,  cannot  now  be  attempted.  Our  sole  aim  must 
be  to  enable  the  reader  of  The  Son  of  a  Servant  to  take  up  a  sym- 
pathetic standpoint.  This  book  forms  part  of  the  autobiography 
of  a  most  gifted  man,  through  whose  life  the  fierce  winds  of 
Europe's  opinions  blew  into  various  expression. 

The  second  reason  for  the  exercise  of  impartiality,  is  that 
Strindberg's  recent  death  has  led  to  the  circulation  through 
Europe  of  certain  phrases  which  are  liable  to  displace  the  balance 
of  judgment  in  reviewing  his  life  and  work.  There  are  passages 
in  his  writings,  and  phases  of  his  autobiography,  that  raise 
questions  of  Abnormal  Psychology.  Hence  pathological  terms 
are  used  to  represent  the  whole  man  and  his  work.  Again, 
from  the  jargon  of  a  prevalent  Nietzschianism— a  doctrine  at 
once  like  and  unlike  the  teaching  of  that  solitary  thinker — 
descriptions  of  the  Superman  are  borrowed,  and  with  these 
Strindberg  is  labelled.  Or  again,  certain  incidents  in  his  domestic 
affairs  are  seized  upon  to  prove  him  a  decadent  libertine.  The 
facts  of  this  book,  The  Son  of  a  Servant,  are  true:  Strindberg  lived 
them.  His  Inferno,  in  like  manner,  is  a  transcript  of  a  period  of 
his  life.  And  if  these  books  are  read  as  they  should  "be  read, 
they  are  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  records  of  the  progress 
of  a  most  gifted  life  along  the  Dolorous  Way. 

The  present  volume  is  the  record  of  the  early  years  of  Strind- 
berg's life,  and  the  story  is  incomparably  told.  For  the  sympa- 
thetic reader  it  will  represent  the  history  of  a  temperament  to 
which  the  world  could  not  come  in  easy  fashion,  and  for  which 
circumstances  had  contrived  a  world  where  it  would  encounter 
at  each  step  tremendous  difficulties.  We  find  in  Strindberg  the 
consciousness  of  vast  powers  thwarted  by  neglect,  by  misunder- 


Introdviction  vii 

standing,  and  by  the  shackles  of  an  ignominious  parentage.  He 
sets  out  on  life  as  a  viking,  sailing  the  trackless  seas  that  beat 
upon  the  shores  of  unknown  lands,  where  he  must  take  the  sword 
to  establish  his  rights  of  venture,  and  write  fresh  pages  in  some 
Heimskringla  of  a  later  age. 

A  calm  reading  of  the  book  may  induce  us  to  suggest  that 
this  is  often  the  fate  of  genius.  The  man  of  great  endowments 
is  made  to  walk  where  hardship  lies  on  every  side.  And  though 
a  recognition  of  the  hardness  of  the  way  is  something,  it  must 
be  borne  in  mind  that  while  some  are  able  to  pass  along  it  in 
serenity,  others  face  it  in  tears,  and  others  again  in  terrible  revolt. 
Revolt  was  the  only  possible  attitude  for  the  Son  of  a  Servant. 

How  true  this  is  may  be  realised  by  recalling  the  fact  that 
towards  the  end  of  the  same  year  in  which  The  Son  of  a  Servant 
appeared,  viz.,  1886,  our  author  published  the  second  part  of  a 
series  of  stories  entitled  Marriage,  in  which  that  relationship 
is  subjected  to  criticism  more  intense  than  is  to  be  found  in  any 
of  the  many  volumes  devoted  to  this  subject  in  a  generation 
eminently  given  to  this  form  of  criticism.  Side  by  side  with 
this  fact  should  be  set  the  contents  of  one  such  story  from  his 
pen.  Here  he  has  etched,  with  acid  that  bites  deeper  than  that 
of  the  worker  in  metal,  the  story  of  a  woman's  pettiness  and 
inhumanity  towards  the  husband  who  loves  her.  By  his  art 
her  weakness  is  made  to  dominate  every  detail  of  the  domestic 
menage,  and  what  was  once  a  woman  now  appears  to  be  the 
spirit  of  neglect,  whose  habitation  is  garnished  with  dust  and 
dead  flowers.  Her  great  weakness  calls  to  the  man's  pity,  and 
we  are  told  how,  into  this  disorder,  he  brings  the  joy  of  Christ- 
mastide,  and  the  whispered  words  of  life,  like  a  wind  from  some 
flower-clad  hill.  The  natural  conclusion,  as  regards  both  his 
autobiographical  works  and  his  volume  of  stories,  is  this:  that 
Strindberg  finds  the  Ideal  to  be  a  scourge,  and  not  a  Pegasus. 
And  this  is  a  distinction  that  sharply  divides  man  from  man, 
whether  endowed  for  the  attainment  of  saintship,  for  the  appre- 
hension of  the  vision,  or  with  powers  that  enable  him  to  wander 
far  over  the  worlds  of  thought. 

Had  Strindberg  intended  to  produce  some  more  finished  work 
to  qualify  the  opinion  concerning  his  pessimism,  he  could  have 
done  no  better  than  write  the  novel  that  comes  next  in  the 
order  of  his  works,  Hemso  Folk,  which  was  given  to  the  world 


viii  Introduction 

in  the  year  1887.  It  is  the  first  of  his  novels  to  draw  on  the 
natural  beauties  of  the  rocky  coast  and  many  tiny  islands  which 
make  up  the  splendour  of  the  Fjord  whose  crown  is  Stockholm, 
and  which,  continuing  north  and  south,  provide  fascinating 
retreats,  still  unspoilt  and  unexplored  by  the  commercial  agent. 
It  may  be  noticed  here  that  this  northern  Land  of  Faery  has  not 
long  since  found  its  way  into  English  literature  through  a  story 
by  Mr.  Algernon  Blackwood,  in  his  interesting  volume,  John 
Silence.  The  adequate  description  of  this  region  was  reserved 
for  August  Strindberg,  and  among  his  prose  writings  there  are 
none  to  compare  with  those  that  have  been  inspired  by  the 
islands  and  coast  he  delighted  in.  Among  them,  Hemso  Folk 
ranks  first.  In  this  work  he  shows  his  mastery,  not  of  self- 
portraiture,  but  of  the  portraiture  of  other  men,  and  his  characters 
are  painted  with  a  mastery  of  subject  and  material  which  in  a 
sister  art  would  cause  one  to  think  of  Velasquez.  Against  a 
background  of  sea  and  sky  stand  the  figures  of  a  schoolmaster 
and  a  priest — the  portraits  of  both  depicted  with  the  highest 
art, — and  throughout  the  book  may  be  heard  the  authentic 
speech  of  the  soul  of  Strindberg's  North.  He  may  truly  be 
claimed  to  be  most  Swedish  here;  but  he  may  also  with  equal 
truth  be  claimed  to  be  most  universal,  since  Hemso  Folk  is  true 
for  all  time,  and  in  all  places. 

In  the  following  year  (1888)  was  published  another  volume 
of  tales  by  Strindberg,  entitled  Life  on  the  Skerries,  and  again 
the  sea,  and  the  sun,  and  the  life  of  men  who  commune  with  the 
great  waters  are  the  sources  of  his  virile  inspiration.  Other 
novels  of  a  like  kind  were  written  later,  but  at  this  hour  of  his 
life  he  yielded  to  the  command  of  the  idea — a  voice  which  called 
him  more  strongly  than  did  the  magnificence  of  Nature,  whose 
painter  he  could  be  when  he  had  respite  from  the  whirlwind. 

Tschandala,  his  next  book,  was  the  fruit  of  a  holiday  in  the 
country.  This  novel  was  written  to  show  a  man  of  uncommon 
powers  of  mind  in  the  toils  of  inferior  folk — the  proletariat  of  soul 
bent  on  the  ruin  of  the  elect  in  soul.  Poverty  keeps  him  in  chains. 
He  is  forced  to  deal  with  neighbours  of  varying  degrees  of  degra- 
dation. A  landlady  deceives  her  husband  for  the  sake  of  a 
vagrant  lover.  This  person  attempts  to  subordinate  the  un- 
common man ;  who,  however,  discovers  that  he  can  be  dominated 
through  his  superstitious  fears.     He  is  enticed  one  night  into  a 


Introdxiction  ix 

field,  where  the  projections  from  a  lantern,  imagined  as  super- 
natural beings,  so  play  upon  his  fears  that  he  dies  from  fright. 
In  this  book  we  evidently  have  the  experimental  upsurging  of  his 
imagination:  supposing  himself  the  victim  of  a  sordid  environ- 
ment, he  can  see  with  unveiled  eyes  what  might  happen  to  him. 
Realistic  in  his  apprehension  of  outward  details,  he  sees  the  idea 
in  its  vaguest  proportions.  This  creates,  this  informs  his  pictures 
of  Nature;  this  also  makes  his  heaven  and  hel  Inasmuch  as  a 
similar  method  is  used  by  certain  modem  novelists,  the  curious 
phrase  "a  novel  of  ideas"  has  been  coined.  As  though  it  were  a 
surprising  feature  to  find  an  idea  expressed  in  novels!  And  not 
rarely  such  works  are  said  to  be  lacking  in  warmth,  because  they 
are  too  full  of  thought. 

After  Tschandala  come  two  or  three  novels  of  distinctly  con- 
troversial character — books  of  especial  value  in  essaying  an 
understanding  of  Strindberg's  mind.  The  pressure  of  ideas  from 
many  quarters  of  Europe  was  again  upon  him,  and  caused  him  to 
undertake  long  and  desperate  pilgrimages.  In  the  Offing  and  To 
Damascus  are  the  suggestive  titles  of  these  books.  Seeing,  how- 
ever, that  a  detailed  sketch  of  the  evolution  of  Strindberg's 
opinions  is  not  at  this  moment  practicable,  we  merely  mention 
these  works,  and  the  years  1890  and  1892. 

Meanwhile  our  author  has  passed  through  two  intervals  in  his 
life  of  a  more  peaceful  character  than  was  usually  his  lot.  The 
first  of  these  was  spent  among  his  favourite  scenes  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  Gulf  of  Bothnia,  where  he  lived  like  a  hermit,  writing  poetry 
and  painting  pictures.  He  might  have  become  a  painter  of 
some  note,  had  it  not  come  so  natural  to  him  to  use  the  pen.  At 
any  rate,  during  the  time  that  he  wielded  the  brush  he  put  on 
canvas  the  scenes  which  he  succeeded  in  reproducing  so  mar- 
vellously in  his  written  works.  The  other  period  of  respite  was 
during  a  visit  to  Ola  Hansson,  a  Swedish  writer  of  rare  distinction, 
then  living  near  Berlin.  The  author  of  Sensitiva  Amorosa  was 
the  antithesis  of  Strindberg.  A  consummate  artist,  with  a  wife 
of  remarkable  intellectual  power,  the  two  enfolded  him  in  their 
peace,  and  he  was  able  to  give  full  expression  to  his  creative 
faculty. 

Strindberg  now  enters  upon  the  period  which  culminates  in  the 
writing  of  The  Inferno.  From  the  peace  of  Ola  Hansson's  home 
he  set  out  on  his  wedding  tour,  and  during  the  early  part  of  it 


X  Introduction 

came  over  to  England.  In  a  remarkable  communication  to  a 
Danish  man  of  letters,  Strindberg  answers  many  questions  con- 
cerning his  personal  tastes,  among  them  several  regarding  his 
English  predilections.  We  may  imagine  them  present  to  him 
as  he  looks  upon  the  sleeping  city  from  London  Bridge,  in  the 
greyness  of  a  Sunday  morning,  after  a  journey  from  Gravesend. 
His  favourite  English  writer  is  Dickens,  and  of  his  works  the  most 
admired  is  Little  Dorrit.  A  novel  written  in  the  period  described 
in  The  Son  of  a  Servant,  and  which  first  brought  him  fame,  was 
inspired  by  the  reading  of  David  Copperfieldl  His  favourite 
painter  is  Turner.  These  little  sidelights  upon  the  personality  of 
the  man  are  very  interesting,  throwing  into  relief  as  they  do  the 
view  of  him  adopted  by  the  writer  of  the  foregoing  pages.  Lon- 
don, however,  he  disliked,  and  a  crisis  in  health  compelled  him  to 
leave  for  Paris,  from  which  moment  begins  his  journey  through 
the  "  Inferno. " 

A  play  of  Strindberg's  has  been  performed  in  Paris — the  height 
of  his  ambition.  Once  attained,  it  was  no  longer  to  be  desired; 
accordingly,  he  turned  from  the  theatre  to  Science.  He  takes 
from  their  hiding-place  some  chemical  apparatus  he  had  purchased 
long  before.  Drawing  the  blinds  of  his  room  he  bums  pure 
sulphur  until  he  believes  that  he  has  discovered  in  it  the  presence 
of  carbon.  His  sentences  are  written  in  terse,  swift  style.  A 
page  or  two  of  the  book  is  turned  over,  and  we  find  his  pen 
obeying  the  impulse  of  his  penetrating  sight.  .  .  .  Separation 
from  his  wife;  the  bells  of  Christmas;  his  visit  to  a  hospital,  and 
the  people  he  sees  there,  begin  to  occupy  him.  Gratitude  to  the 
nursing  sister,  and  the  reaching  forward  of  his  mind  into  the 
realm  of  the  alchemical  significance  of  his  chemical  studies,  arouse 
in  him  a  spirit  of  mystical  asceticism.  Pages  of  The  Inferno 
might  be  cited  to  show  their  resemblance  to  documents  which 
have  come  to  us  from  the  Egyptian  desert,  or  from  the  narrow 
cell  of  a  recluse.  Theirs  is  the  search  for  a  spiritual  union :  his  is 
the  quest  of  a  negation  of  self,  that  his  science  might  be  without 
fault.  A  notion  of  destiny  is  grafted  upon  his  mysticism  of 
science.  He  wants  to  be  led,  as  did  the  ascetic,  though  for  him 
the  goal  is  lore  hidden  from  mortal  eyes.  He  now  happens  upon 
confirmation  of  his  scientific  curiosity,  in  the  writings  of  an  older 
chemist.  Then  he  meets  with  Balzac's  novel  Seraphita,  and  a 
new  ecstasy  is  added  to  his  outreaching  towards  the  knowledge 


Introduction  3d 

he  aspires  to.  Vivid  temptations  assail  him;  he  materialises  as 
objective  personalities  the  powers  that  appear  to  place  obstacles 
in  the  way  of  his  researches.  Again  we  observe  the  same  pheno- 
mena as  in  the  soul  of  the  monk,  yet  always  with  this  diflference : 
Strindberg  is  the  monk  of  science.  Curious  little  experiences — 
that  others  would  brush  into  that  great  dust-bin,  Chance — are 
examined  with  a  rare  simplicity  to  see  if  they  may  hold  signifi- 
cance for  the  order  of  his  life.  These  details  accumulate  as  we 
turn  the  pages  of  The  Inferno,  and  force  one  to  the  conclusion 
that  they  are  akin  to  the  material  which  we  have  only  lately  begun 
to  study  as  phenomena  peculiar  to  the  psychology  of  the  religious 
life.  Their  summary  inclusion  under  the  heading  of  "Abnormal 
Psychology"  will,  however,  lead  to  a  shallow  interpretation  of 
Strindberg.  The  voluntary  isolation  of  himself  from  the  relations 
of  life  and  the  world  plays  havoc  with  his  health.  Soon  he  is 
established  under  a  doctor's  care  in  a  little  southern  Swedish  town, 
with  its  memories  of  smugglers  and  pirates;  and  he  immediately 
likens  the  doctor's  house  to  a  Buddhist  cloister.  The  combina- 
tion is  typically  Strindbergian !  He  begins  to  be  haunted  with 
the  terrible  suspicion  that  he  is  being  plotted  against.  Nature  is 
exacting  heavy  dues  from  his  overwrought  system.  After  thirty 
days'  treatment  he  leaves  the  establishment  with  the  reflection 
that  whom  the  Lord  loveth  he  chasteneth. 

Dante  wrote  his  Divine  Comedy;  Strindberg  his  Mortal 
Comedy.  There  are  three  great  stages  in  each,  and  the  literary 
vehicle  of  their  perilous  journey ings  is  aptly  chosen.  Readers 
of  the  wonderful  Florentine  will  recall  the  familiar  words: 

"Surge  ai  mortali  per  diverse  foci 
la  lucema  de  mondo."' 

And  they  have  found  deeper  content  in  Strindberg's  self-dis- 
coveries. The  first  part  of  his  Inferno  tells  of  his  Purgatory;  the 
second  part  closes  with  the  poignant  question.  Whither?  If, 
for  a  moment,  we  step  beyond  the  period  of  his  life  with  whica 
this  study  deals,  we  shall  find  him  telling  of  his  Paradise  in  a 
mystery-play  entitled  Advent,  where  he,  too,  had  a  starry  vision 
of  "un  simplice  lume,"  a  simple  fiame  that  ingathers  the  many 

'  "  There  riseth  up  to  mortals  through   diverse  trials  the  light  of  the 
world." 


xii  Introdvjctioii 

and  scattered  gleams  of  the  universe's  revelation.  His  guide 
through  Hell  is  Sw^^denborg.  Once  more  the  note  is  that  of  the 
anchorite;  for  at  the  outset  of  his  acceptance  of  Swedenborg's 
guidance  he  is  tempted  to  believe  that  even  his  guide's  spiritual 
teaching  may  ^^eaken  his  belief  in  a  God  who  chastens.  He 
desires  to  deny  himself  the  gratification  of  the  sight  of  his  little 
daughter,  because  he  appears  to  consider  her  prattle,  that  breaks 
into  the  web  of  his  contemplation,  to  be  the  instrument  of  a 
strange  power.  From  step  to  step  he  goes  until  his  faith  is 
childlike  as  a  peasant's.  How  he  is  hurled  again  into  the  depths 
of  his  own  Hell,  the  closing  pages  of  his  book  will  tell  us.  What- 
ever views  the  reader  may  hold,  it  seems  impossible  that  he  should 
see  in  this  Mortal  Comedy  the  utterances  of  deranged  genius. 
Rather  will  his  charity  of  judgment  have  led  him  to  a  better 
understanding  of  one  who  listened  to  the  winds  that  blow  through 
Europe,  and  was  buffeted  by  their  violence. 

We  may  close  this  brief  study  by  asking  the  question:  What, 
then,  is  Strindberg's  legacy  for  the  advancement  of  Art,  as  found 
in  this  decade  of  his  life?  It  will  surely  be  seen  that  Strindberg's 
realism  is  of  a  peculiarly  personal  kind.  Whatever  his  sympathy 
with  Zola  may  have  been,  or  Zola's  with  him,  Strindberg  has 
never  confounded  journalism  with  Art.  He  has  also  recognised 
in  his  novels  that  there  is  a  difference  between  the  function  of  the 
camera  and  the  eye  of  the  artist.  More  than  this — and  it  is 
important  if  Strindberg  is  to  be  understood — his  realism  has 
always  been  subservient  to  the  idea.  And  it  is  this  power  that 
has  essentially  rendered  Strindberg's  realism  peculiarly  personal; 
that  is  to  say,  incapable  of  being  copied  or  forming  a  school. 
It  can  only  be  used  by  such  as  he  who,  standing  in  the  maelstrom 
of  ideas,  is  fashioned  and  attuned  by  the  whirling  storms,  as  they 
strive  for  complete  expression.  Not  always,  however,  is  he 
subservient  to  their  dominion.  Sometimes  cast  down  from  the 
high  places  whence  the  multitudinous  voice  can  be  heard,  he  may 
say  and  do  that  which  raises  fierce  criticism.  A  patient  study  of 
Strindberg  will  lay  bare  such  matters;  but  their  discovery  must 
not  blind  our  eyes  to  the  truth  that  these  are  moments  of  in- 
sensitiveness  towards,  or  rejection  of,  the  majestic  power  which  is 
ceaselessly  sculpturing  our  highest  Western  civilisation. 

HENRY  VACHER-BURCH. 


The  Son  of  a  Servant 


I 

FEAR  AND  HUNGER 

In  the  third  story  of  a  large  house  near  the  Clara 
Church  in  Stockholm,  the  son  of  the  shipping 
agent  and  the  servant-maid  awoke  to  self-con- 
sciousness. The  child's  first  impressions  were,  as 
he  remembered  afterwards,  fear  and  hunger.  He 
feared  the  darkness  and  blows,  he  feared  to  fall, 
to  knock  himself  against  something,  or  to  go  in  the 
streets.  He  feared  the  fists  of  his  brothers,  the 
roughness  of  the  servant-girl,  the  scolding  of  his 
grandmother,  the  rod  of  his  mother,  and  his 
father's  cane.  He  was  afraid  of  the  general's 
manservant,  who  lived  on  the  ground-floor,  with 
his  skull-cap  and  large  hedge-scissors ;  he  feared  the 
landlord's  deputy,  when  he  played  in  the  courtyard 
with  the  dust-bin ;  he  feared  the  landlord,  who  was 


2  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

a  magistrate.  Above  him  loomed  a  hierarchy  of 
authorities  wielding  various  rights,  from  the  right 
of  seniority  of  his  brothers  to  the  supreme  tribunal 
of  his  father.  And  yet  above  his  father  was  the 
deputy-landlord,  who  always  threatened  him  with 
the  landlord.  This  last  was  generally  invisible, 
because  he  lived  in  the  country,  and  perhaps,  for 
that  reason,  was  the  most  feared  of  all.  But 
again,  above  all,  even  above  the  manservant  with 
the  skiill-cap,  was  the  general,  especially  when  he 
sallied  forth  in  uniform  wearing  his  plumed  three- 
cornered  hat.  The  child  did  not  know  what  a 
king  looked  like,  but  he  knew  that  the  general 
went  to  the  King.  The  servant-maids  also  used 
to  tell  stories  of  the  King,  and  showed  the  child 
his  picture.  His  mother  generally  prayed  to  God 
in  the  evening,  but  the  child  could  form  no  distinct 
idea  of  God,  except  that  He  must  certainly  be 
higher  than  the  King. 

This  tendency  to  fear  was  probably  not  the 
child's  own  peculiarity,  but  due  to  the  troubles 
which  his  parents  had  undergone  shortly  before 
his  birth.  And  the  troubles  had  been  great. 
Three  children  had  been  born  before  their  marriage 
and  John  soon  after  it.  Probably  his  birth  had 
not  been  desired,  as  his  father  had  gone  bankrupt 


Kear  and  Hvin^er  3 

just  before,  so  that  he  came  to  the  Ught  in  a  now 
pillaged  house,  in  which  was  only  a  bed,  a  table, 
and  a  couple  of  chairs.  About  the  same  time  his 
father's  brother  had  died  in  a  state  of  enmity  with 
him,  because  his  father  would  not  give  up  his 
wife,  but,  on  the  contrary,  made  the  tie  stronger 
by  marriage.  His  father  was  of  a  reserved  nattire, 
which  perhaps  betokened  a  strong  will.  He  was 
an  aristocrat  by  birth  and  education.  There  was 
an  old  genealogical  table  which  traced  his  descent 
to  a  noble  family  of  the  sixteenth  century.  His 
paternal  ancestors  were  pastors  from  Zemtland,  of 
Norwegian,  possibly  Finnish  blood.  It  had  be- 
come mixed  by  emigration.  His  mother  was  of 
German  birth,  and  belonged  to  a  carpenter's 
family.  His  father  was  a  grocer  in  Stockholm,  a 
captain  of  volimteers,  a  freemason,  and  adherent 
of  Karl  Johann. 

John's  mother  was  a  poor  tailor's  daughter, 
sent  into  domestic  service  by  her  stepfather.  She 
had  become  a  waitress  when  John's  father  met 
her.  She  was  democratic  by  instinct,  but  she 
looked  up  to  her  husband,  because  he  was  of 
"good  family,"  and  she  loved  him;  but  whether  as 
deliverer,  as  husband,  or  as  family-provider,  one 
does  not  know,  and  it  is  difficult  to  decide. 


4  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

He  addressed  his  manservant  and  maid  as 
"thou,"  and  she  called  him  "sir."  In  spite  of  his 
come-down  in  the  world,  he  did  not  join  the  party 
of  malcontents,  but  fortified  himself  with  religious 
resignation,  saying,  "It  is  God's  will,"  and  lived 
a  lonely  life  at  home.  But  he  still  cherished  the 
hope  of  being  able  to  raise  himself  again. 

He  was,  however,  fundamentally  an  aristocrat, 
even  in  his  habits.  His  face  was  of  an  aristocratic 
type,  beardless,  thin-skinned,  with  hair  like  Louis 
Philippe.  He  wore  glasses,  always  dressed  ele- 
gantly, and  liked  clean  linen.  The  manservant 
who  cleaned  his  boots  had  to  wear  gloves  when 
doing  so,  because  his  hands  were  too  dirty  to  be 
put  into  them. 

John's  mother  remained  a  democrat  at  heart. 
Her  dress  was  always  simple  but  clean.  She 
wished  the  children  to  be  clean  and  tidy,  nothing 
more.  She  lived  on  intimate  terms  with  the 
servants,  and  punished  a  child,  who  had  been  rude 
to  one  of  them,  upon  the  bare  accusation,  without 
investigation  or  inquiry.  She  was  always  kind 
to  the  poor,  and  however  scanty  the  fare  might  be 
at  home,  a  beggar  was  never  sent  empty  away. 
Her  old  nurses,  four  in  number,  often  came  to  see 
her,  and  were  received  as  old  friends.     The  storm 


Fear  and  Hvm^er  5 

of  financial  trouble  had  raged  severely  over  the 
whole  family,  and  its  scattered  members  had  crept 
together  like  frightened  poultry,  friends  and  foes 
alike,  for  they  felt  that  they  needed  one  another 
for  mutual  protection.  An  aunt  rented  two  rooms 
in  the  house.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  famous 
English  discoverer  and  manufacturer,  who  had 
been  ruined.  She  received  a  pension,  on  which 
she  lived  with  two  well-educated  daughters.  She 
was  an  aristocrat,  having  formerly  possessed  a 
splendid  house,  and  conversed  with  celebrities. 
She  loved  her  brother,  though  disapproving  of  his 
marriage,  and  had  taken  care  of  his  children  when 
the  storm  broke.  She  wore  a  lace  cap,  and  the 
children  kissed  her  hand.  She  taught  them  to 
sit  straight  on  their  chairs,  to  greet  people  politely, 
and  to  express  themselves  properly.  Her  room 
had  traces  of  bygone  luxury,  and  contained  gifts 
from  many  rich  friends.  It  had  cushioned  rose- 
wood furniture  with  embroidered  covers  in  the 
English  style.  It  was  adorned  with  the  picture 
of  her  deceased  husband  dressed  as  a  member  of 
the  Academy  of  Sciences  and  wearing  the  order  of 
Gustavus  Vasa.  On  the  wall  there  hung  a  large 
oil-painting  of  her  father  in  the  uniform  of  a  major 
of   volunteers.     This   man    the   children   always 


6  XKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

regarded  as  a  king,  for  he  wore  many  orders, 
which  later  on  they  knew  were  freemasonry 
insignia.  The  aunt  drank  tea  and  read  EngHsh 
books.  Another  room  was  occupied  by  John's 
mother's  brother,  a  small  trader  in  the  New  Mar- 
ket, as  well  as  by  a  cousin,  the  son  of  the  deceased 
uncle,  a  student  in  the  Technological  Institute. 

In  the  nursery  lived  the  grandmother.  She 
was  a  stem  old  lady  who  mended  hose  and  blouses, 
taught  the  ABC,  rocked  the  cradle,  and  pulled 
hair.  She  was  religious,  and  went  to  early  service 
in  the  Clara  Church.  In  the  winter  she  carried 
a  lantern,  for  there  were  no  gas-lamps  at  that  time. 
She  kept  in  her  own  place,  and  probably  loved 
neither  her  son-in-law  nor  his  sister.  They  were 
too  polite  for  her.  He  treated  her  with  respect, 
but  not  with  love. 

John's  father  and  mother,  with  seven  children 
and  two  servants,  occupied  three  rooms.  The 
furniture  mostly  consisted  of  tables  and  beds. 
Children  lay  on  the  ironing  boards  and  the  chairs, 
children  in  the  cradles  and  the  beds.  The  father 
had  no  room  for  himself,  although  he  was  con- 
stantly at  home.  He  never  accepted  an  invitation 
from  his  many  business  friends,  because  he  could 
not  return  it.     He  never  went  to  the  restaurant 


Fear  and  Hvinger  7 

or  the  theatre.  He  had  a  wound  which  he  con- 
cealed and  wished  to  heal.  His  recreation  was  the 
piano.  One  of  the  nieces  came  every  other  evening 
and  then  Haydn's  symphonies  were  played  d 
quatre  mains,  later  on  Mozart,  but  never  anything 
modem.  Afterwards  he  had  also  another  recrea- 
tion as  circumstances  permitted.  He  ciiltivated 
flowers  in  window-boxes,  but  only  pelargoniums. 
Why  pelargoniums?  When  John  had  grown  older 
and  his  mother  was  dead,  he  fancied  he  always  saw 
her  standing  by  one.  She  was  pale,  she  had  had 
twelve  confinements  and  suffered  from  lung- 
complaint.  Her  face  was  like  the  transparent 
white  leaves  of  the  pelargonium  with  its  crimson 
veins,  which  grow  darker  towards  the  pistil,  where 
they  seemed  to  form  an  almost  black  eye,  like 
hers. 

The  father  appeared  only  at  meal-times.  He 
was  melancholy,  weary,  strict,  serious,  but  not 
hard.  He  seemed  severer  than  he  really  was,  be- 
cause on  his  return  home  he  always  had  to  settle 
a  number  of  things  which  he  could  not  judge 
properly.  Besides,  his  name  was  always  used  to 
frighten  the  children.  "I  will  tell  papa  that," 
signified  a  thrashing.  It  was  not  exactly  a  pleas- 
ant r61e  which  fell  to  his  share.     Towards  the 


8  XKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

mother  he  was  always  gentle.  He  kissed  her 
after  every  meal  and  thanked  her  for  the  food. 
This  accustomed  the  children,  unjustly  enough, 
to  regard  her  as  the  giver  of  all  that  was  good,  and 
the  father  as  the  dispenser  of  all  that  was  evil. 
They  feared  him.  When  the  cry  "Father  is 
coming!"  was  heard,  all  the  children  ran  and  hid 
themselves,  or  rushed  to  the  nursery  to  be  combed 
and  washed.  At  the  table  there  was  deathly 
silence,  and  the  father  spoke  only  a  little. 

The  mother  had  a  nervous  temperament.  She 
used  to  become  easily  excited,  but  soon  quieted 
down  again.  She  was  relatively  content  with  her 
life,  for  she  had  risen  in  the  social  scale,  and  had 
improved  her  position  and  that  of  her  mother  and 
brother.  She  drank  her  coffee  in  bed  in  the 
mornings,  and  had  her  nurses,  two  servants,  and 
her  mother  to  help  her.  Probably  she  did  not 
over-exert  herself. 

But  for  the  children  she  played  the  part  of 
Providence  itself.  She  cut  overgrown  nails,  tied 
up  injured  fingers,  always  comforted,  quieted,  and 
soothed  when  the  father  punished,  although  she 
was  the  official  accuser.  The  children  did  not 
like  her  when  she  "sneaked,"  and  she  did  not  \\dn 
their  respect.     She  could  be  unjust,  violent,  and 


Fear  and  Hvin^er  9 

punish  unseasonably  on  the  bare  accusation  of  a 
servant ;  but  the  children  received  food  and  comfort 
from  her,  therefore  they  loved  her.  The  father, 
on  the  other  hand,  always  remained  a  stranger, 
and  was  regarded  rather  as  a  foe  than  a  friend. 

That  is  the  thankless  position  of  the  father  in 
the  family — the  provider  for  all,  and  the  enemy  of 
all.  If  he  came  home  tired,  himgry,  and  ill- 
hiimoured,  found  the  floor  only  just  scoured  and 
the  food  ill-cooked,  and  ventured  a  remark,  he 
received  a  curt  reply.  He  lived  in  his  own  house 
as  if  on  sufferance,  and  the  children  hid  away  from 
him.  He  was  less  content  than  his  wife,  for  he 
had  come  down  in  the  world,  and  was  obliged  to 
do  without  things  to  which  he  had  formerly  been 
accustomed.  And  he  was  not  pleased  when  he 
saw  those  to  whom  he  had  given  life  and  food 
discontented. 

But  the  family  is  a  very  imperfect  arrangement. 
It  is  properly  an  institution  for  eating,  washing, 
and  ironing,  and  a  very  uneconomical  one.  It 
consists  chiefly  of  preparations  for  meals,  market- 
shopping,  anxieties  about  bills,  washing,  ironing, 
starching,  and  scouring.  Such  a  lot  of  bustle  for 
so  few  persons!  The  keeper  of  a  restaurant,  who 
serves  hundreds,  hardly  does  more. 


10  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

The  education  consisted  of  scolding,  hair- 
pulling,  and  exhortations  to  obedience.  The 
child  heard  only  of  his  duties,  nothing  of  his  rights. 
Everyone  else's  wishes  carried  weight;  his  were 
suppressed.  He  could  begin  nothing  without 
doing  wrong,  go  nowhere  without  being  in  the  way, 
utter  no  word  without  disturbing  someone.  At 
last  he  did  not  dare  to  move.  His  highest  duty 
and  virtue  was  to  sit  on  a  chair  and  be  quiet.  It 
was  always  dinned  into  him  that  he  had  no  will 
of  his  own,  and  so  the  foundation  of  a  weak  char- 
acter was  laid. 

Later  on  the  cry  was,  "What  will  people  say?" 
And  thus  his  will  was  broken,  so  that  he  could 
never  be  true  to  himself,  but  was  forced  to  depend 
on  the  wavering  opinions  of  others,  except  on  the 
few  occasions  when  he  felt  his  energetic  soul  work 
independently  of  his  will. 

The  child  was  very  sensitive.  He  wept  so  often 
that  he  received  a  special  nickname  for  doing  so. 
He  felt  the  least  remark  keenly,  and  was  in  per- 
petual anxiety  lest  he  should  do  something  wrong. 
He  was  very  awake  to  injustice,  and  while  he  had 
a  high  ideal  for  himself,  he  narrowly  watched  the 
failings  of  his  brothers.  When  they  were  unpun- 
ished,  he   felt   deeply  injured;   when    they  were 


Fear  and  Hunger  II 

undeservedly  rewarded,  his  sense  of  justice  suffered. 
He  was  accordingly  considered  envious.  He  then 
complained  to  his  mother.  Sometimes  she  took 
his  part,  but  generally  she  told  him  not  to  judge 
so  severely.  But  they  judged  him  severely,  and 
demanded  that  he  should  judge  himself  severely. 
Therefore  he  withdrew  into  himself  and  became 
bitter.  His  reserve  and  shyness  grew  on  him.  He 
hid  himself  if  he  received  a  word  of  praise,  and 
took  a  pleasure  in  being  overlooked.  He  began 
to  be  critical  and  to  take  a  pleasure  in  self-torture ; 
he  was  melancholy  and  boisterous  by  turns. 

His  eldest  brother  was  hysterical;  if  he  became 
vexed  during  some  game,  he  often  had  attacks  of 
choking  with  convulsive  laughter.  This  brother 
was  the  mother's  favourite,  and  the  second  one 
the  father's.  In  all  families  there  are  favourites; 
it  is  a  fact  that  one  child  wins  more  sympathy 
than  another.  John  was  no  one's  favourite.  He 
was  aware  of  this,  and  it  troubled  him.  But  the 
grandmother  saw  it,  and  took  his  part;  he  read 
the  ABC  with  her  and  helped  her  to  rock  the 
cradle.  But  he  was  not  content  with  this  love; 
he  wanted  to  win  his  mother;  he  tried  to  flatter 
her,  but  did  it  clumsily  and  was  repulsed. 

Strict  discipline  prevailed  in  the  house;  false- 


12  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

hood  and  disobedience  were  severely  punished. 
Little  children  often  tell  falsehoods  because  of 
defective  memories.  A  child  is  asked,  "Did  you 
do  it?"  It  happened  only  two  hours  ago,  and  his 
memory  does  not  reach  back  so  far.  Since  the 
act  appeared  an  indifferent  matter  to  the  child, 
he  paid  it  no  attention.  Therefore  little  children 
can  lie  unconsciously,  and  this  fact  should  be 
remembered.  They  also  easily  lie  out  of  self- 
defence;  they  know  that  a  "no"  can  free  them 
from  punishment,  and  a  "yes"  bring  a  thrashing. 
They  can  also  lie  in  order  to  win  an  advantage. 
The  earliest  discovery  of  an  awakening  conscious- 
ness is  that  a  well-directed  "yes"  or  "no"  is 
profitable  to  it.  The  ugliest  feature  of  childish 
untruthfulness  is  when  they  accuse  one  another. 
They  know  that  a  misdeed  must  be  visited  by 
punishing  someone  or  other,  and  a  scapegoat  has 
to  be  found.  That  is  a  great  mistake  in  education. 
Such  punishment  is  pure  revenge,  and  in  such 
cases  is  itself  a  new  wrong. 

The  certainty  that  every  misdeed  will  be  pun- 
ished makes  the  child  afraid  of  being  accused  of  it, 
and  John  was  in  a  perpetual  state  of  anxiety  lest 
some  such  act  should  be  discovered. 

One     day,    during    the     mid-day     meal,     his 


Fear  and  H\jnger  IS 

father   examined  his  sister's  wine-flask.     It  was 
empty. 

"Who  has  drunk  the  wine?"  he  asked,  looking 
round  the  circle.  No  one  answered,  but  John 
blushed. 

"It  is  you,  then,"  said  his  father. 

John,  who  had  never  noticed  where  the  wine- 
flask  was  hidden,  burst  into  tears  and  sobbed, 
"I  did  n't  drink  the  wine." 

"Then  you  He  too.  When  dinner  is  over,  you 
will  get  something." 

The  thought  of  what  he  would  get  when  dinner 
was  over,  as  well  as  the  continued  remarks  about 
"John's  secretiveness,"  caused  his  tears  to  flow 
without  pause.     They  rose  from  the  table. 

"Come  here,"  said  his  father,  and  went  into  the 
bedroom.  His  mother  followed.  "Ask  father 
for  forgiveness,"  she  said.  His  father  had  taken 
out  the  stick  from  behind  the  looking-glass. 

"Dear  papa,  forgive  me!"  the  innocent  child 
exclaimed.  But  now  it  was  too  late.  He  had 
confessed  the  theft,  and  his  mother  assisted  at  the 
execution.  He  howled  from  rage  and  pain,  but 
chiefly  from  a  sense  of  humiliation.  "Ask  papa 
now  for  forgiveness,"  said  his  mother. 

The  child  looked  at  her  and  despised  her.     He 


14  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

felt  lonely,  deserted  by  her  to  whom  he  had  always 
fled  to  find  comfort  and  compassion,  but  so  seldom 
justice.  "Dear  papa,  forgive,"  he  said,  with 
compressed  and  lying  lips. 

And  then  he  stole  out  into  the  kitchen  to  Louise 
the  nursery-maid,  who  used  to  comb  and  wash 
him,  and  sobbed  his  grief  out  in  her  apron. 

"What  have  you  done,  John?"  she  asked 
sympathetically. 

"Nothing,"  he  answered.  "I  have  done 
nothing." 

The  mother  came  out.  "What  does  John  say?" 
she  asked  Louise.  "  He  says  that  he  did  n't  do  it." 
"Is  he  lying  still?" 

And  John  was  fetched  in  again  to  be  tortured 
into  the  admission  of  what  he  had  never  done. 

Splendid,  moral  institution!  Sacred  family! 
Divinely  appointed,  unassailable,  where  citizens 
are  to  be  educated  in  truth  and  virtue!  Thou 
art  supposed  to  be  the  home  of  the  virtues,  where 
innocent  children  are  tortured  into  their  first 
falsehood,  where  wills  are  broken  by  tyranny,  and 
self-respect  killed  by  narrow  egoism.  Family! 
thou  art  the  home  of  all  social  evil,  a  charitable 
institution  for  comfortable  women,  an  anchorage 
for  house-fathers,  and  a  hell  for  children. 


Fear  and  Hunger  15 

After  this  John  lived  in  perpetual  disquiet.  He 
dared  not  confide  in  his  mother,  or  Louise,  still 
less  his  brothers,  and  least  of  all  his  father.  Ene- 
mies everywhere!  God  he  knew  only  through 
hymns.  He  was  an  atheist,  as  children  are,  but 
in  the  dark,  like  savages  and  animals,  he  feared 
evil  spirits. 

"Who  drank  the  wine?"  he  asked  himself;  who 
was  the  guilty  one  for  whom  he  suffered?  New 
impressions  and  anxieties  caused  him  to  forget  the 
question,  but  the  unjust  treatment  remained  in 
his  memory.  He  had  lost  the  confidence  of  his 
parents,  the  regard  of  his  brothers  and  sisters,  the 
favour  of  his  aunt;  his  grandmother  said  nothing. 
Perhaps  she  inferred  his  innocence  on  other 
grounds,  for  she  did  not  scold  him,  and  was  silent. 
She  had  nothing  to  say.  He  felt  himself  dis- 
graced— punished  for  lying,  which  was  so  abomi- 
nated in  the  household,  and  for  theft,  a  word 
which  could  not  be  mentioned,  deprived  of  house- 
hold rights,  suspected  and  despised  by  his  brothers 
because  he  had  been  caught.  All  these  conse- 
quences, which  were  painful  and  real  for  him, 
sprang  out  of  something  which  never  existed — 
his  guilt. 


i6  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

It  was  not  actual  poverty  which  reigned  in  the 
house,  but  there  was  overcrowding.  Baptisms, 
and  burials  followed  each  other  in  rapid  succession. 
Sometimes  there  were  two  baptisms  without  a 
burial  between  them.  The  food  was  carefully 
distributed,  and  was  not  exactly  nourishing. 
They  had  meat  only  on  Sundays,  but  John  grew 
sturdy  and  was  tall  for  his  age.  He  used  now  to 
be  sent  to  play  in  the  "court,"  a  well-like,  stone- 
paved  area  in  which  the  sun  never  shone.  The 
dust-bin  which  resembled  an  old  bureau  with  a 
flap-cover  and  a  coating  of  tar,  but  burst,  stood 
on  four  legs  by  the  wall.  Here  slop-pails  were 
emptied  and  rubbish  thrown,  and  through  the 
cracks  a  black  stream  flowed  over  the  court. 
Great  rats  lurked  under  the  dust-bin  and  looked 
out  now  and  then,  scurrying  off  to  hide  themselves 
in  the  cellar.  Woodsheds  and  closets  lined  one 
side  of  the  court.  Here  there  was  dampness, 
darkness,  and  an  evil  smell.  John's  first  attempt 
to  scrape  out  the  sand  between  the  great  paving- 
stones  was  frustrated  by  the  irascible  landlord's 
deputy.  The  latter  had  a  son  with  whom  John 
played,  but  never  felt  safe.  The  boy  was  inferior 
to  him  in  physical  strength  and  intelligence,  but 
when  disputes  arose  he  used  to  appeal  to  his  father. 


Fear  and  Hvinger  17 

His  superiority  consisted  in  having  an  authority 
behind  him. 

The  baron  on  the  ground-floor  had  a  staircase 
with  iron  banisters.  John  Hked  playing  on  it,  but 
all  attempts  to  cHmb  on  the  balustrade  were 
hindered  by  the  servant  who  rushed  out. 

He  was  strictly  forbidden  to  go  out  in  the  street. 
But  when  he  looked  through  the  doorway,  and 
saw  the  churchyard  gate,  he  heard  the  children 
playing  there.  He  had  no  longing  to  be  with  them, 
for  he  feared  children ;  looking  down  the  street,  he 
saw  the  Clara  lake  and  the  drawbridges.  That 
looked  novel  and  mysterious,  but  he  feared  the 
water.  On  quiet  winter  evenings  he  had  heard 
cries  for  help  from  drowning  people.  These, 
indeed,  were  often  heard.  As  they  were  sitting  by 
the  lamp  in  the  nursery,  one  of  the  servant-maids 
would  say,  "Hush!"  and  all  would  Hsten  while 
long,  continuous  cries  would  be  heard.  .  .  .  "Now 
someone  is  drowning,"  one  of  the  girls  said.  They 
listened  till  all  was  still,  and  then  told  stories  of 
others  who  had  been  drowned. 

The  nursery  looked  towards  the  courtyard,  and 
through  the  window  one  saw  a  zinc  roof  and  a 
pair  of  attics  in  which  stood  a  quantity  of  old 
disused    furniture    and    other    household    stuff. 


l8  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

This  furniture,  without  any  people  to  use  it,  had  a 
weird  effect.  The  servants  said  that  the  attics 
were  haunted.  What  "haunted"  meant  they 
could  not  exactly  say,  only  that  it  had  something 
to  do  with  dead  men  going  about.  Thus  are  we  all 
brought  up  by  the  lower  classes.  It  is  an  in- 
voluntary revenge  which  they  take  by  inoculat- 
ing our  children  with  superstitions  which  we  have 
cast  aside.  Perhaps  this  is  what  hinders  develop- 
ment so  much,  while  it  somewhat  obliterates  the 
distinction  between  the  classes.  Why  does  a 
mother  let  this  most  important  duty  slip  from  her 
hands — a  mother  who  is  supported  by  the  father 
in  order  that  she  may  educate  her  children? 
John's  mother  only  occasionally  said  his  evening 
prayer  with  him;  generally  it  was  the  maidservant. 
The  latter  had  taught  him  an  old  Catholic  prayer 
which  ran  as  follows: 

"Through  our  house  an  angel  goes, 
In  each  hand  a  light  he  shows." 

The  other  rooms  looked  out  on  the  Clara  church- 
yard. Above  the  lime-trees  the  nave  of  the  church 
rose  like  a  mountain,  and  on  the  mountain  sat  the 
giant  with  a  copper  hat,  who  kept  up  a  never- 
ceasing  clamour  in  order  to  announce  the  flight  of 
time.     He  sounded  the  quarter  hours  in  soprano, 


Fear  and  Hunger  19 

and  the  hours  in  bass.  He  rang  for  early  morning 
prayer  with  a  tinkling  sound,  for  matins  at  eight 
o'clock  and  vespers  at  seven.  He  rang  thrice 
during  the  forenoon,  and  four  times  during  the 
afternoon.  He  chimed  all  the  hours  from  ten  till 
four  at  night;  he  tolled  in  the  middle  of  the  week 
at  funerals,  and  often,  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  dur- 
ing the  cholera  epidemic.  On  Sundays  he  rang  so 
much  that  the  whole  family  was  nearly  reduced 
to  tears,  and  no  one  could  hear  what  the  other 
said.  The  chiming  at  night,  when  John  lay  awake, 
was  weird;  but  worst  of  all  was  the  ringing  of  an 
alarm  when  a  fire  broke  out.  When  he  heard  the 
deep  solemn  boom  in  the  middle  of  the  night  for 
the  first  time  he  shuddered  feverishly  and  wept. 
On  such  occasions  the  household  always  awoke, 
and  whisperings  were  heard:  "There  is  a  fire!" — 
"Where?"  They  counted  the  strokes,  and  then 
went  to  sleep  again;  but  he  kept  awake  and  wept. 
Then  his  mother  came  upstairs,  tucked  him  up, 
and  said:  "Don't  be  afraid;  God  protects  unfor- 
tunate people!"  He  had  never  thought  that  of 
God  before.  In  the  morning  the  servant-girls 
read  in  the  papers  that  there  had  been  a  fire  in 
Soder,  and  that  two  people  had  been  killed.  "It 
was  God's  will,"  said  the  mother. 


20  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

His  first  awakening  to  consciousness  was  mixed 
with  the  pealing,  chiming,  and  tolling  of  bells. 
All  his  first  thoughts  and  impressions  were  accom- 
panied by  the  ringing  for  funerals,  and  the  first 
years  of  his  life  were  counted  out  by  strokes  of  the 
quarter.  The  effect  on  him  was  certainly  not 
cheerful,  even  if  it  did  not  decidedly  tell  on  his 
nervous  system.  But  who  can  say?  The  first 
years  are  as  important  as  the  nine  months  which 
precede  them. 

The  recollections  of  childhood  show  how  the 
senses  first  partly  awaken  and  receive  the  most 
vivid  impressions,  how  the  feelings  are  moved  by 
the  lightest  breath,  how  the  faculty  of  observation 
first  fastens  on  the  most  striking  outward  appear- 
ances and,  later,  on  moral  relations  and  qualities, 
justice  and  injustice,  power  and  pity. 

These  memories  lie  in  confusion,  unformed  and 
undefined,  like  pictures  in  a  thaumatrope.  But 
when  it  is  made  to  revolve,  they  melt  together 
and  form  a  picture,  significant  or  insignificant  as 
the  case  may  be. 

One  day  the  child  sees  splendid  pictures  of  em- 
perors and  kings  in  blue  and  red  uniforms,  which 
the  servant-girls  hang  up  in  the  nursery.  He  sees 
another  representing  a  building  which  flies  in  the 


Fear  and  Hvinger  2i 

air  and  is  full  of  Turks.  Another  time  he  hears 
someone  read  in  a  newspaper  how,  in  a  distant 
land,  they  are  firing  cannon  at  towns  and  villages, 
and  remembers  many  details — for  instance,  his 
mother  weeping  at  hearing  of  poor  fishermen 
driven  out  of  their  burning  cottages  with  their 
children.  These  pictures  and  descriptions  referred 
to  Czar  Nicholas  and  Napoleon  III.,  the  storming 
of  Sebastopol,  and  the  bombardment  of  the  coast 
of  Finland.  On  another  occasion  his  father  spends 
the  whole  day  at  home.  All  the  tumblers  in  the 
house  are  placed  on  the  window-ledges.  They  are 
filled  with  sand  in  which  candles  are  inserted  and 
lit  at  night.  All  the  rooms  are  warm  and  bright. 
It  is  bright  too  in  the  Clara  school-house  and  in  the 
church  and  the  vicarage ;  the  church  is  full  of  music. 
These  are  the  illuminations  to  celebrate  the  re- 
covery of  King  Oscar. 

One  day  there  is  a  great  noise  in  the  kitchen. 
The  bell  is  rung  and  his  mother  called.  There 
stands  a  man  in  uniform  with  a  book  in  his  hand 
and  writes.  The  cook  weeps,  his  mother  suppli- 
cates and  speaks  loud,  but  the  man  with  the  helmet 
speaks  still  louder.  It  is  the  policeman!  The 
cry  goes  all  over  the  house,  and  all  day  long  they 
talk  of  the  police.     His  father  is  simimoned  to  the 


22  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

police-station.  Will  he  be  arrested?  No;  but  he 
has  to  pay  three  rix-dollars  and  sixteen  skillings, 
because  the  cook  had  emptied  a  utensil  in  the 
gutter  in  the  daytime. 

One  afternoon  he  sees  them  lighting  the  lamps 
in  the  street.  A  cousin  draws  his  attention  to  the 
fact  that  they  have  no  oil  and  no  wicks,  but  only 
a  metal  burner.     They  are  the  first  gas-lamps. 

For  many  nights  he  lies  in  bed,  without  getting 
up  by  day.  He  is  tired  and  sleepy.  A  harsh- 
voiced  man  comes  to  the  bed,  and  says  that  he 
must  not  lay  his  hands  outside  the  coverlet.  They 
give  him  evil-tasting  stuff  with  a  spoon;  he  eats 
nothing.  There  is  whispering  in  the  room,  and 
his  mother  weeps.  Then  he  sits  again  at  the  win- 
dow in  the  bedroom.  Bells  are  tolling  the  whole 
day  long.  Green  biers  are  carried  over  the 
churchyard.  Sometimes  a  dark  mass  of  people 
stand  round  a  black  chest.  Gravediggers  with 
their  spades  keep  coming  and  going.  He  has  to 
wear  a  copper  plate  suspended  by  a  blue  silk 
ribbon  on  his  breast,  and  chew  all  day  at  a  root. 
That  is  the  cholera  epidemic  of  1854. 

One  day  he  goes  a  long  way  with  one  of  the 
servants — so  far  that  he  becomes  homesick  and 
cries  for  his  mother.     The  servant  takes  him  into 


Fear  and  Hunger  23 

a  house;  they  sit  in  a  dark  kitchen  near  a  green 
water-butt.     He  thinks  he  will  never  see  his  home 
again.     But  they  still  go  on,  past  ships  and  barges, 
past  a  gloomy  brick  house  with  long  high  walls 
behind  which  prisoners  sit.     He  sees  a  new  church, 
a  new  alley  lined  with  trees,  a  dusty  highroad 
along  whose  edges  dandelions  grow.     Now  the 
servant  carries  him.     At  last  they  come  to  a  great 
stone  building  hard  by  which  is  a  yellow  wooden 
house  with  a  cross,  surrounded  by  a  large  garden. 
They  see  limping,  mournful-looking  people  dressed 
in   white.     They  reach   a   great   hall   where   are 
nothing  but  beds  painted  brown,  with  old  women 
in  them.     The  walls  are  whitewashed,   the  old 
women  are  white,  and  the  beds  are  white.     There 
is  a  very  bad  smell.     They  pass  by  a  row  of  beds, 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  room  stop  at  a  bed  on  the 
right  side.     In  it  lies  a  woman  younger  than  the 
rest  with  black  curly  hair  confined  by  a  night-cap. 
She  lies  half  on  her  back;  her  face  is  emaciated, 
and  she  wears  a  white  cloth  over  her  head  and  ears. 
Her  thin  hands  are  wrapped  up  in  white  bandages 
and  her  arms  shake  ceaselessly  so  that  her  knuckles 
knock  against  each  other.    When  she  sees  the  child, 
her  arms  and  knees  tremble  violently,  and  she 
bursts  into  tears.     She  kisses  his  head,  but  the 


24  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

boy  does  not  feel  comfortable.  He  is  shy,  and  not 
far  from  crying  himself.  "Don't  you  know 
Christina  again?"  she  says;  but  he  does  not. 
Then  she  dries  her  eyes  and  describes  her  sufferings 
to  the  servant,  who  is  taking  eatables  out  of  a 
basket. 

The  old  women  in  white  now  begin  to  talk  in  an 
undertone,  and  Christina  begs  the  servant  not  to 
show  what  she  has  in  the  basket,  for  they  are  so 
envious.  Accordingly  the  servant  pushes  surrep- 
titiously a  yellow  rix-dollar  into  the  psalm-book  on 
the  table.  The  child  finds  the  whole  thing  tedious. 
His  heart  says  nothing  to  him ;  it  does  not  tell  him 
that  he  has  drunk  this  woman's  milk,  which  really 
belonged  to  another;  it  does  not  tell  him  that  he 
had  slept  his  best  sleep  on  that  shrunken  bosom, 
that  those  shaking  arms  had  cradled,  carried,  and 
dandled  him;  his  heart  says  nothing,  for  the  heart 
is  only  a  muscle,  which  pumps  blood  indifferent 
as  to  the  source  it  springs  from.  But  after  re- 
ceiving her  last  fervent  kisses,  after  bowing  to  the 
old  women  and  the  nurse,  and  breathing  freely  in 
the  courtyard  after  inhaling  the  close  air  of  the 
sick-ward,  he  becomes  somehow  conscious  of  a 
debt,  which  can  only  be  paid  by  perpetual  grati- 
tude, a  few  eatables,  and  a  rix-dollar  slipped  into  a 


Fear  and  Hxin^er  25 

psalm-book,  and  he  feels  ashamed  at  being  glad  to 
get  away  from  the  brown-painted  beds  of  the 
sufferers. 

It  was  his  wet-nurse,  who  subsequently  lay  for 
fifteen  years  in  the  same  bed,  suffering  from  fits 
of  cramp  and  wasting  disease,  till  she  died.  Then 
he  received  his  portrait  in  a  schoolboy's  cap,  sent 
back  by  the  directors  of  the  Sabbatsberg  infirmary, 
where  it  had  hung  for  many  years.  During  that 
time  the  growing  youth  had  only  once  a  year  given 
her  an  hour  of  indescribable  joy,  and  himself  one 
of  some  uneasiness  of  conscience,  by  going  to 
see  her.  Although  he  had  received  from  her 
inflammation  in  his  blood,  and  cramp  in  his  nerves, 
still  he  felt  he  owed  her  a  debt,  a  representative 
debt.  It  was  not  a  personal  one,  for  she  had  only 
given  him  what  she  had  been  obliged  to  sell.  The 
fact  that  she  had  been  compelled  to  sell  it  was  the 
sin  of  society,  and  as  a  member  of  society  he  felt 
himself  in  a  certain  degree  gtiilty. 

Sometimes  the  child  went  to  the  churchyard, 
where  everything  seemed  strange.  The  vaults 
with  the  stone  monuments  bearing  inscriptions 
and  carved  figures,  the  grass  on  which  one  might 
not  step,  the  trees  with  leaves  which  one  might  not 
touch.     One  day  his  uncle  plucked  a  leaf,  but  the 


26  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

police  were  instantly  on  the  spot.  The  great 
building  in  the  middle  was  unintelligible  to  him. 
People  went  in  and  out  of  it,  and  one  heard  singing 
and  music,  ringing  and  chiming.  It  was  mysteri- 
ous. At  the  east  end  was  a  window  with  a  gilded 
eye.  That  was  God's  eye.  He  did  not  understand 
that,  but  at  any  rate  it  was  a  large  eye  which 
must  see  far. 

Under  the  window  was  a  grated  cellar-opening. 
His  uncle  pointed  out  to  him  the  polished  coffins 
below.  "Here,"  he  said,  "lives  Clara  the  Nun." 
Who  was  she?  He  did  not  know,  but  supposed 
it  must  be  a  ghost. 

One  day  he  stands  in  an  enormous  room  and 
does  not  know  where  he  is;  but  it  is  beautiful, 
everything  in  white  and  gold.  Music,  as  if  from 
a  hundred  pianos,  sounds  over  his  head,  but  he 
cannot  see  the  instrument  or  the  person  who 
plays  it.  There  stand  long  rows  of  benches,  and 
quite  in  front  is  a  picture,  probably  of  some  Bible 
story.  Two  white-winged  figures  are  kneeling, 
and  near  them  are  two  large  candlesticks.  Those 
are  probably  the  angels  with  the  two  lights  who 
go  about  our  house.  The  people  on  the  benches 
are  bowed  down  as  though  they  were  sleeping. 
"Take  your  caps  off,"  says  his  uncle,  and  holds 


Fear  and  Hunger  27 

his  hat  before  his  face.  The  boys  look  round,  and 
see  close  beside  them  a  strange-looking  seat  on 
which  are  two  men  in  grey  mantles  and  hoods. 
They  have  iron  chains  on  their  hands  and  feet,  and 
policemen  stand  by  them. 

"Those  are  thieves,"  whispers  their  uncle. 

All  this  oppresses  the  boy  with  a  sense  of  weird- 
ness,  strangeness,  and  severity.  His  brothers  also 
feel  it,  for  they  ask  their  uncle  to  go,  and  he 
complies. 

Strange!  Such  are  the  impressions  made  by 
that  form  of  worship  which  was  intended  to  sym- 
bolise the  simple  truths  of  Christianity.  But  it 
was  not  like  the  mild  teaching  of  Christ.  The 
sight  of  the  thieves  was  the  worst — in  iron  chains, 
and  such  coats! 

One  day,  when  the  sun  shines  warmly,  there  is  a 
great  stir  in  the  house.  Articles  of  furniture  are 
moved  from  their  place,  drawers  are  emptied, 
clothes  are  thrown  about  everywhere.  A  morning 
or  two  after,  a  waggon  comes  to  take  away  the 
things,  and  so  the  journey  begins.  Some  of  the 
family  start  in  a  boat  from  "the  red  shop, "  others 
go  in  a  cab.  Near  the  harbour  there  is  a  smell  of 
oil,  tar,  and  coal  smoke;  the  freshly  painted  steam- 


28  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

boats  shine  in  gay  colours  and  their  flags  flutter 
in  the  breeze;  drays  rattle  past  the  long  row  of 
lime-trees;  the  yellow  riding-school  stands  dusty 
and  dirty  near  a  woodshed.  They  are  going  on 
the  water,  but  first  they  go  to  see  their  father  in  his 
office.  John  is  astonished  to  find  him  looking 
cheerful  and  brisk,  joking  with  the  sunburnt 
steamer  captains  and  laughing  in  a  friendly,  pleas- 
ant way.  Indeed,  he  seems  quite  youthful,  and 
has  a  bow  and  arrows  with  which  the  captains 
amuse  themselves  by  shooting  at  the  window  of  the 
riding-school.  The  oflice  is  small,  but  they  can  go 
behind  the  green  partition  and  drink  a  glass  of  por- 
ter behind  a  curtain.  The  clerks  are  attentive  and 
polite  when  his  father  speaks  to  them.  John  had 
never  before  seen  his  father  at  work,  but  only 
known  him  in  the  character  of  a  tired,  hungry  pro- 
vider for  his  family,  who  preferred  to  live  with  nine 
persons  in  three  rooms,  than  alone  in  two.  He  had 
only  seen  his  father  at  leisure,  eating  and  reading 
the  paper  when  he  came  home  in  the  evening, 
but  never  in  his  official  capacity.  He  admired 
him,  but  he  felt  that  he  feared  him  now  less,  and 
thought  that  some  day  he  might  come  to  love 
him. 

He  fears  the  water,  but  before  he  knows  where 


Fear  and  Hvinger  39 

he  is  he  finds  himself  sitting  in  an  oval  room 
ornamented  in  white  and  gold,  and  containing  red 
satin  sofas.  Such  a  splendid  room  he  has  never 
seen  before.  But  everything  rattles  and  shakes. 
He  looks  out  of  a  little  window,  and  sees  green 
banks,  bluish-green  waves,  sloops  carrying  hay, 
and  steamers  passing  by.  It  is  like  a  panorama 
or  something  seen  at  a  theatre.  On  the  banks 
move  small  red  and  white  houses,  outside  which 
stand  green  trees  with  a  sprinkling  of  snow  upon 
them;  larger  green  meadows  rush  past  with  red 
cows  standing  in  them,  looking  like  Christmas 
toys.  The  sun  gets  high,  and  now  they  reach  trees 
with  yellow  foliage  and  brown  caterpillars,  bridges 
with  sailing-boats  flying  flags,  cottages  with  fowls 
pecking  and  dogs  barking.  The  sun  shines  on 
rows  of  windows  which  lie  on  the  ground,  and  old 
men  and  women  go  about  with  water-cans  and 
rakes.  Then  appear  green  trees  again  bending 
over  the  water,  and  yellow  and  white  bath-houses ; 
overhead  a  cannon-shot  is  fired;  the  rattling  and 
shaking  cease;  the  banks  stand  still;  above  him 
he  sees  a  stone  wall,  men's  coats  and  trousers  and 
a  multitude  of  boots.  He  is  carried  up  some  steps 
which  have  a  gilded  rail,  and  sees  a  very  large 
castle.     Somebody  says,  "Here  the  King  lives." 


30  XKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

It  was  the  castle  of  Drottningholm — the  most 
beautiful  memory  of  his  childhood,  even  including 
the  fairy-tale  books. 

Their  things  are  unpacked  in  a  little  white  house 
on  a  hill,  and  now  the  children  roll  on  the  grass, 
on  real  green  grass  without  dandelions,  like  that 
in  the  Clara  churchyard.  It  is  so  high  and  bright, 
and  the  woods  and  fiords  are  green  and  blue  in  the 
distance. 

The  dust-bin  is  forgotten,  the  schoolroom  with 
its  foul  atmosphere  has  disappeared,  the  melan- 
choly church-bells  sound  no  more,  and  the 
graves  are  far  away.  But  in  the  evening  a  bell 
rings  in  a  little  belfry  quite  near  at  hand.  With 
astonishment  he  sees  the  modest  little  bell  which 
swings  in  the  open  air,  and  sends  its  sound  far  over 
the  park  and  bay.  He  thinks  of  the  terrible  deep- 
toned  bell  in  the  tower  at  home,  which  seemed  to 
him  like  a  great  black  maw  when  he  looked  into 
it,  as  it  swung,  from  below.  In  the  evening,  when 
he  is  tired  and  has  been  washed  and  put  to  bed, 
he  hears  how  the  silence  seems  to  hum  in  his  ears, 
and  waits  in  vain  to  hear  the  strokes  and  chiming 
of  the  bell  in  the  tower. 

The  next  morning  he  wakes  to  get  up  and  play. 
He  plays  day  after  day  for  a  whole  week.     He  is  in 


Fear  and  H\an^er  31 

nobody's  way,  and  everything  is  so  peaceful.  The 
little  ones  sleep  in  the  nursery,  and  he  is  in  the  open 
air  all  day  long.  His  father  does  not  appear;  but 
on  Saturday  he  comes  out  from  the  town  and 
pinches  the  boys'  cheeks  because  they  have  grown 
and  become  sunburnt.  "  He  does  not  beat  us  now 
any  more,"  thinks  the  child;  but  he  does  not 
trace  this  to  the  simple  fact  that  here  outside  the 
city  there  is  more  room  and  the  air  is  purer. 

The  summer  passes  gloriously,  as  enchanting  as 
a  fairy-tale;  through  the  poplar  avenues  run 
lackeys  in  silver-embroidered  livery,  on  the  water 
float  sky-blue  dragon-ships  with  real  princes  and 
princesses,  on  the  roads  roll  golden  chaises  and 
purple-red  coaches  drawn  by  Arab  horses  four-in- 
hand,  and  the  whips  are  as  long  as  the  reins. 

Then  there  is  the  King's  castle  with  the  polished 
floors,  the  gilt  furniture,  marble-tiled  stoves  and 
pictures;  the  park  with  its  avenues  like  long  lofty 
green  churches,  the  fountains  ornamented  with  un- 
intelligible figures  from  story-books ;  the  summer- 
theatre  that  remained  a  puzzle  to  the  child, 
but  was  used  as  a  maze;  the  Gothic  tower,  always 
closed  and  mysterious,  which  had  nothing  else  to 
do  but  to  echo  back  the  sound  of  voices. 

He  is  taken  for  a  walk  in  the  park  by  a  cousin 


32  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

whom  he  calls  "aunt."  She  is  a  well-dressed 
maiden  just  grown  up,  and  carries  a  parasol. 
They  come  into  a  gloomy  wood  of  sombre  pines; 
here  they  wander  for  a  while,  ever  farther.  Pre- 
sently they  hear  a  murmur  of  voices,  music,  and 
the  clatter  of  plates  and  forks ;  they  find  themselves 
before  a  little  castle ;  figures  of  dragons  and  snakes 
wind  down  from  the  roof -ridge,  other  figures  of  old 
men  with  yellow  oval  faces,  black  slanting  eyes 
and  pigtails,  look  from  under  them;  letters  which 
he  cannot  read,  and  which  are  unlike  any  others 
he  has  seen,  run  along  the  eaves.  But  below  on 
the  ground-floor  of  the  castle  royal  personages  sit 
at  table  by  the  open  windows  and  eat  from  silver 
dishes  and  drink  wine. 

"There  sits  the  King,"  says  his  aunt. 

The  child  becomes  alarmed,  and  looks  round  to 
see  whether  he  has  not  trodden  on  the  grass,  or  is 
not  on  the  point  of  doing  something  wrong.  He 
believes  that  the  handsome  King,  who  looks 
friendly,  sees  right  through  him,  and  he  wants  to 
go.  But  neither  Oscar  I.  nor  the  French  field- 
marshals  nor  the  Russian  generals  trouble  them- 
selves about  him,  for  they  are  just  now  discussing 
the  Peace  of  Paris,  which  is  to  make  an  end  of  the 
war  in  the  East.     On  the  other  hand,   police- 


Fear  and  Hxin^er  33 

guards,  looking  like  roused  lions,  are  marching 
about,  and  of  them  he  has  an  unpleasant  recollec- 
tion. He  needs  only  to  see  one,  and  he  feels  im- 
mediately guilty  and  thinks  of  the  fine  of  three 
rix-dollars  and  sixteen  skillings.  However,  he  has 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  highest  form  of  authority — 
higher  than  that  of  his  brother,  his  mother,  his 
father,  the  deputy-landlord,  the  landlord,  the  gen- 
eral with  the  plumed  helmet,  and  the  police. 

On  another  occasion,  again  with  his  aunt,  he 
passes  a  little  house  close  to  the  castle.  In  a 
courtyard  strewn  with  sand  there  stands  a  man  in 
a  panama  hat  and  a  summer  suit.  He  has  a  black 
beard  and  looks  strong.  Round  him  there  runs  a 
black  horse  held  by  a  long  cord.  The  man  springs 
a  rattle,  cracks  a  whip,  and  fires  shots. 

"That  is  the  Crown  Prince,"  says  his  aunt. 

He  looked  like  any  other  man,  and  was  dressed 
like  his  imcle  Yanne. 

Another  time,  in  the  park,  deep  in  the  shade  of 
some  trees,  a  mounted  officer  meets  them.  He 
salutes  the  boy's  aunt,  makes  his  horse  stop,  talks 
to  her,  and  asks  his  name.  The  boy  answers,  but 
somewhat  shyly.  The  dark-visaged  man  with  the 
kind  eyes  looks  at  him,  and  he  hears  a  loud  peal  of 
laughter.     Then  the  rider  disappears.     It  was  the 


34  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

Crown  Prince  again.  The  Crown  Prince  had 
spoken  to  him!  He  felt  elevated,  and  at  the  same 
time  more  sure  of  himself.  The  dangerous  poten- 
tate had  been  quite  pleasant. 

One  day  he  learns  that  his  father  and  aunt  are 
old  acquaintances  of  a  gentleman  who  lives  in  the 
great  castle  and  wears  a  three-cornered  hat  and  a 
sabre.  The  castle  thenceforward  assumes  a  more 
friendly  aspect.  He  is  also  acquainted  with 
people  in  it,  for  the  Crown  Prince  has  spoken  with 
him,  and  his  father  calls  the  chamberlain  "thou." 
Now  he  understands  that  the  gorgeous  lackeys 
are  of  inferior  social  rank  to  him,  especially  when 
he  hears  that  the  cook  goes  for  walks  with  one  of 
them  in  the  evenings.  He  discovers  that  he  is,  at 
any  rate,  not  on  the  lowest  stair  in  the  social  scale. 

Before  he  has  had  time  to  realise  it,  the  fairy- 
tale is  over.  The  dust-bin  and  the  rats  are  again 
there,  but  the  deputy-landlord  does  not  use  his 
authority  any  more  when  John  wants  to  dig  up 
stones,  for  John  has  spoken  with  the  Crown  Prince, 
and  the  family  have  been  for  a  summer  holiday. 
The  boy  has  seen  the  splendour  of  the  upper 
classes  in  the  distance.  He  longs  after  it,  as  after 
a  home,  but  the  menial  blood  he  has  from  his 
mother  rebels  against  it.    From  instinct  he  reveres 


Fear  and  Hunger  35 

the  upper  classes,  and  thinks  too  much  of  them 
ever  to  be  able  to  hope  to  reach  them.  He  feels 
that  he  belongs  neither  to  them  nor  to  the  menial 
class.  That  becomes  one  of  the  struggles  in  his 
life.  ' 


II 

BREAKING-IN 

The  storm  of  poverty  was  now  over.  The 
members  of  the  family  who  had  held  together 
for  mutual  protection  could  now  all  go  their  own 
way.  But  the  overcrowding  and  unhappy  cir- 
cumstances of  the  family  continued.  However, 
death  weeded  them  out.  Black  papers  which  had 
contained  sweets  distributed  at  the  funeral  were 
being  continually  gummed  on  the  nursery  walls. 
The  mother  constantly  went  about  in  a  jacket;  all 
the  cousins  and  aunts  had  already  been  used  up 
as  sponsors,  so  that  recourse  had  now  to  be  made 
to  the  clerks,  ships'  captains,  and  restaurant- 
keepers. 

In  spite  of  all,  prosperity  seemed  gradually  to 
return.  Since  there  was  too  little  space,  the  family 
removed  to  one  of  the  suburbs,  and  took  a  six- 
roomed  house  in  the  Norrtullsgata.  At  the  same 
time  John  entered  the  Clara  High  School  at  the 

age  of  seven.     It  was  a  long  way  for  short  legs  to 

36 


BreaKin^-In  37 

go  four  times  a  day,  but  his  father  wished  that  the 
children  should  grow  hardy.  That  was  a  laudable 
object,  but  so  much  unnecessary  expenditure  of 
muscular  energy  should  have  been  compensated 
for  by  nourishing  food.  However,  the  household 
means  did  not  allow  of  that,  and  the  monotonous 
exercise  of  walking  and  carrying  a  heavy  school- 
satchel  provided  no  sufficient  counterpoise  to 
excessive  brain-work.  There  was,  consequently, 
a  loss  of  moral  and  physical  equilibrium  and  new 
struggles  resulted.  In  winter  the  seven-year-old 
boy  and  his  brothers  are  waked  up  at  6  A.M.  in 
pitch  darkness.  He  has  not  been  thoroughly 
rested,  but  still  carries  the  fever  of  sleep  in  his 
limbs.  His  father,  mother,  younger  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  the  servants  are  still  asleep.  He 
washes  himself  in  cold  water,  drinks  a  cup  of 
barley-coffee,  eats  a  French  roll,  runs  over  the 
endings  of  the  Fourth  Declension  in  Rabe's  Gram- 
mar, repeats  a  piece  of  "Joseph  sold  by  his 
brethren, "  and  memorises  the  Second  Article  with 
its  explanation. 

Then  the  books  are  thrust  in  the  satchel  and 
they  start.  In  the  street  it  is  still  dark.  Every 
other  oil-lantern  sways  on  the  rope  in  the  cold 
wind,  and  the  snow  lies  deep,  not  having  been  yet 


38  XHe  Son  of  a  Servant 

cleared  away  before  the  houses.  A  Httle  quarrel 
arises  among  the  brothers  about  the  rate  they  are 
to  march.  Only  the  bakers*  carts  and  the  police 
are  moving.  Near  the  Observatory  the  snow  is  so 
deep  that  their  boots  and  trousers  get  wet  through. 
In  Kungsbacken  Street  they  meet  a  baker  and  buy 
their  breakfast,  a  French  roll,  which  they  usually 
eat  on  the  way. 

In  Haymarket  Street  he  parts  from  his  brothers, 
who  go  to  a  private  school.  When  at  last  he 
reaches  the  corner  of  Berg  Street  the  fatal  clock 
in  the  Clara  Church  strikes  the  hour.  Fear  lends 
wings  to  his  feet,  his  satchel  bangs  against  his  back, 
his  temples  beat,  his  brain  throbs.  As  he  enters 
the  churchyard  gate  he  sees  that  the  class-rooms 
are  empty;  it  is  too  late! 

In  the  boy's  case  the  duty  of  punctuality  took 
the  form  of  a  given  promise,  a  force  majeure^ 
a  stringent  necessity  from  which  nothing  could 
release  him.  A  ship-captain's  bill  of  lading  con- 
tains a  clause  to  the  effect  that  he  binds  himself  to 
deliver  the  goods  uninjured  by  such  and  such  a 
date  "if  God  wills. "  If  God  sends  snow  or  storm, 
he  is  released  from  his  bond.  But  for  the  boy  there 
are  no  such  conditions  of  exemption.  He  has  neg- 
lected his  duty,  and  will  be  punished:  that  is  all. 


DreaKin^-In  39 

With  a  slow  step  he  enters  the  hall.  Only  the 
school  porter  is  there,  who  laughs  at  him,  and 
writes  his  name  on  the  blackboard  under  the  head- 
ing "Late."  A  painful  hour  follows,  and  then 
loud  cries  are  heard  in  the  lower  school,  and  the 
blows  of  a  cane  fall  thickly.  It  is  the  headmaster, 
who  has  made  an  onslaught  on  the  late-comers  or 
takes  his  exercise  on  them.  John  bursts  into  tears 
and  trembles  all  over — not  from  fear  of  pain  but 
from  a  feeling  of  shame  to  think  that  he  should  be 
fallen  upon  like  an  animal  doomed  to  slaughter,  or 
a  criminal.  Then  the  door  opens.  He  starts  up, 
but  it  is  only  the  chamber-maid  who  comes  in  to 
trim  the  lamp. 

"Good-day,  John,"  she  says.  "You  are  too 
late;  you  are  generally  so  punctual.  How  is 
Hanna?" 

John  tells  her  that  Hanna  is  well,  and  that  the 
snow  was  very  deep  in  the  Norrtullsgata. 

"Good  heavens!  You  have  not  come  by 
Norrtullsgata?" 

Then  the  headmaster  opens  the  door  and  enters. 

"Well,  you!" 

"You  must  not  be  angry  with  John,  sir!  He 
lives  in  Norrtullsgata." 

"Silence,  Karin!"  says  the  headmaster,  "and 


40  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

go. — Well,"  he  continues:  "you  live  in  the  Norr- 
tullsgata.  That  is  certainly  a  good  way.  But 
still  you  ought  to  look  out  for  the  time. " 

Then  he  turns  and  goes.  John  owed  it  to  Karin 
that  he  escaped  a  flogging,  and  to  fate  that  Hanna 
had  chanced  to  be  Karin's  fellow-servant  at  the 
headmaster's.  Personal  influence  had  saved  him 
from  an  injustice. 

And  then  the  school  and  the  teaching !  Has  not 
enough  been  written  about  Latin  and  the  cane? 
Perhaps!  In  later  years  he  skipped  all  passages 
in  books  which  dealt  with  reminiscences  of  school 
life,  and  avoided  all  books  on  that  subject.  When 
he  grew  up  his  worst  nightmare,  when  he  had  eaten 
something  indigestible  at  night  or  had  a  specially 
troublesome  day,  was  to  dream  that  he  was  back 
at  school. 

The  relation  between  pupil  and  teacher  is  such, 
that  the  former  gets  as  one-sided  a  view  of  the  latter 
as  a  child  of  its  parent.  The  first  teacher  John 
had  looked  like  the  ogre  in  the  story  of  Tom 
Thumb.  He  flogged  continually,  and  said  he 
would  make  the  boys  crawl  on  the  floor  and  "beat 
them  to  pulp"  if  they  did  their  exercises  badly. 

He  was  not,  however,  really  a  bad  fellow,  and 
John  and  his  school-fellows  presented  him  with  an 


DreaKin^-In  41 

album  when  he  left  Stockholm.  Many  thought 
well  of  him,  and  considered  him  a  fine  character. 
He  ended  as  a  gentleman  farmer  and  the  hero  of 
an  Ostgothland  idyll. 

Another  was  regarded  as  a  monster  of  malignity. 
He  really  seemed  to  beat  the  boys  because  he 
liked  it .  He  would  commence  his  lesson  by  saying, 
"Bring  the  cane, "  and  then  try  to  find  as  many  as 
he  could  who  had  an  ill-prepared  lesson.  He 
finally  committed  suicide  in  consequence  of  a 
scathing  newspaper  article.  Half  a  year  before 
that,  John,  then  a  student,  had  met  him  in  Ug- 
gelvikswald,  and  felt  moved  by  his  old  teacher's 
complaints  over  the  ingratitude  of  the  world.  A 
year  previous  he  had  received  at  Christmas  time 
a  box  of  stones,  sent  from  an  old  pupil  in  Australia. 
But  the  colleagues  of  the  stem  teacher  used  to 
speak  of  him  as  a  good-natured  fool  at  whom  they 
made  jests.  So  many  points  of  view,  so  many 
differing  judgments!  But  to  this  day  old  boys  of 
the  Clara  School  cannot  meet  each  other  without 
expressing  their  horror  and  indignation  at  his 
unmercifulness,  although  they  all  acknowledge 
that  he  was  an  excellent  teacher. 

These  men  of  the  old  school  knew  perhaps  no 
better.     They  had  themselves  been  brought  up 


42  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

on  those  lines,  and  we,  who  learn  to  understand 
everything,  are  bound  also  to  pardon  everything. 

This,  however,  did  not  prevent  the  first  period 
of  school  life  from  appearing  to  be  a  preparation 
for  hell  and  not  for  life.  The  teachers  seemed  to 
be  there  only  to  torment,  not  to  punish;  our  school 
life  weighed  upon  us  like  an  oppressive  nightmare 
day  and  night;  even  having  learned  our  lessons 
well  before  we  left  home  did  not  save  us.  Life 
seemed  a  penal  institution  for  crimes  committed 
before  we  were  born,  and  therefore  the  boy  always 
went  about  with  a  bad  conscience. 

But  he  learned  some  social  lessons.  The  Clara 
School  was  a  school  for  the  children  of  the  better 
classes,  for  the  people  of  the  district  were  well  off. 
The  boy  wore  leather  breeches  and  greased  leather 
boots  which  smelt  of  train-oil  and  blacking. 
Therefore,  those  who  had  velvet  jackets  did  not 
like  sitting  near  him.  He  also  noticed  that  the 
poorly  dressed  boys  got  more  floggings  than  the 
well-dressed  ones,  and  that  pretty  boys  were  let 
off  altogether.  If  he  had  at  that  time  studied 
psychology  and  aesthetics,  he  would  have  under- 
stood this,  but  he  did  not  then. 

The  examination  day  left  a  pleasant,  unforget- 
able  memory.     The  old  dingy  rooms  were  freshly 


BreaKin^-I  n 


43 


scoured,  the  boys  wore  their  best  clothes,  and  the 
teachers  frock-coats  with  white  ties ;  the  cane  was 
put  away,  all  punishments  were  suspended.  It 
was  a  day  of  festival  and  jubilee,  on  which  one 
could  tread  the  floor  of  the  torture-chambers 
without  trembling.  The  change  of  places  in  each 
class,  however,  which  had  taken  place  in  the 
morning,  brought  with  it  certain  surprises,  and 
those  who  had  been  put  lower  made  certain  com- 
parisons and  observations  which  did  not  always 
redound  to  the  credit  of  the  teacher.  The  school 
testimonials  were  also  rather  hastily  drawn  up,  as 
was  natural.  But  the  holidays  were  at  hand,  and 
everything  else  was  soon  forgotten.  At  the  con- 
clusion, in  the  lower  schoolroom,  the  teachers 
received  the  thanks  of  the  Archbishop,  and  the 
pupils  were  reproved  and  warned.  The  presence 
of  the  parents,  especially  the  mothers,  made  the 
chilly  rooms  seem  warm,  and  a  sigh  involuntarily 
rose  in  the  boys'  hearts,  "Why  cannot  it  be  always 
like  to-day?"  To  some  extent  the  sigh  has  been 
heard,  and  our  present-day  youth  no  longer  look 
upon  school  as  a  penal  institute,  even  if  they  do 
not  recognise  much  use  in  the  various  branches  of 
superfluous  learning. 

John  was  certainly  not  a  shining  light  in  the 


44  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

school,  but  neither  was  he  a  mere  good-for-nothing. 
On  account  of  his  precocity  in  learning  he  had 
been  allowed  to  enter  the  school  before  the  regula- 
tion age,  and  therefore  he  was  always  the  youngest. 
Although  his  report  justified  his  promotion  into 
a  higher  class,  he  was  still  kept  a  year  in  his  present 
one.  This  was  a  severe  pull-back  in  his  develop- 
ment ;  his  impatient  spirit  suffered  from  having  to 
repeat  old  lessons  for  a  whole  year.  He  certainly 
gained  much  spare  time,  but  his  appetite  for 
learning  was  dulled,  and  he  felt  himself  neglected. 
At  home  and  school  alike  he  was  the  youngest, 
but  only  in  years ;  in  intelligence  he  was  older  than 
his  school-fellows.  His  father  seemed  to  have 
noticed  his  love  for  learning,  and  to  have  thought 
of  letting  him  become  a  student.  He  heard  him 
his  lessons,  for  he  himself  had  had  an  elementary 
education.  But  when  the  eight-year-old  boy  once 
came  to  him  with  a  Latin  exercise,  and  asked  for 
help,  his  father  was  obliged  to  confess  that  he  did 
not  know  Latin.  The  boy  felt  his  superiority  in 
this  point,  and  it  is  not  improbable  that  his  father 
was  conscious  of  it  also.  He  removed  John's  elder 
brother,  who  had  entered  the  school  at  the  same 
time,  abruptly  from  it,  because  the  teacher  one  day 
had  made  the  younger,  as  monitor,  hear  the  elder 


Dreakin^-In  45 

his  lessons.  This  was  stupid  on  the  part  of  the 
teacher,  and  it  was  wise  of  his  father  to  prevent  it. 

His  mother  was  proud  of  his  learning,  and 
boasted  of  it  to  her  friends.  In  the  family  the  word 
"student"  was  often  heard.  At  the  students* 
congress  in  the  fifties,  Stockholm  was  swarming 
with  white  caps. 

"Think  if  you  should  wear  a  white  cap  some 
day,"   said   his   mother. 

When  the  students'  concerts  took  place,  they 
talked  about  it  for  days  at  a  time.  Acquaintances 
from  Upsala  sometimes  came  to  Stockholm  and 
talked  of  the  gay  students'  life  there.  A  girl  who 
had  been  in  service  in  Upsala  called  John  "the 
student." 

In  the  midst  of  his  terribly  mysterious  school 
life,  in  which  the  boy  could  discover  no  essential 
connection  between  Latin  grammar  and  real  life, 
a  new  mysterious  factor  appeared  for  a  short  time 
and  then  disappeared  again.  The  nine-year-old 
daughter  of  the  headmaster  came  to  the  French 
lessons.  She  was  purposely  put  on  the  last  bench, 
in  order  not  to  be  seen,  and  to  look  round  was  held 
to  be  a  great  misdemeanoiir.  Her  presence, 
however,  was  felt  in  the  class-room.  The  boy, 
and  probably  the  whole  class,  fell  in  love.     The 


46  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

lessons  always  went  well  when  she  was  present; 
their  ambition  was  spurred,  and  none  of  them 
wanted  to  be  humiliated  or  flogged  before  her. 
She  was,  it  is  true,  ugly,  but  well  dressed.  Her 
gentle  voice  vibrated  among  the  breaking  voices 
of  the  boys,  and  even  the  teacher  had  a  smile  on 
his  severe  face  when  he  spoke  to  her.  How 
beautifully  her  name  sounded  when  he  called  it 
out — one  Christian  name  among  all  the  surnames. 

John's  love  found  expression  in  a  silent  melan- 
choly. He  never  spoke  to  her,  and  would  never 
have  dared  to  do  it.  He  feared  and  longed  for  her. 
But  if  anyone  had  asked  him  what  he  wanted  from 
her,  he  could  not  have  told  them.  He  wanted 
nothing  from  her.  A  kiss?  No;  in  his  family 
there  was  no  kissing.  To  hold  her?  No!  Still 
less  to  possess  her.  Possess?  What  shoiild  he  do 
with  her?  He  felt  that  he  had  a  secret.  This 
plagued  him  so  that  he  suffered  under  it,  and  his 
whole  life  was  overclouded.  One  day  at  home  he 
seized  a  knife  and  said,  "I  will  cut  my  throat." 
His  mother  thought  he  was  ill.  He  could  not  tell 
her.     He  was  then  about  nine  years  old. 

Perhaps  if  there  had  been  as  many  girls  as  boys 
in  the  school  present  in  all  the  classes,  probably 
innocent  friendships  would  have  been  formed,  the 


DreaKin^-In  47 

electricity  would  have  been  carried  off,  the  Ma- 
donna-worship brought  within  its  proper  limits, 
and  wrong  ideas  of  woman  would  not  have  fol- 
lowed him  and  his  companions  through  life. 

His  father's  contemplative  turn  of  mind,  his 
dislike  of  meeting  people  after  his  bankruptcy,  the 
unfriendly  verdict  of  public  opinion  regarding  his 
originally  illegal  union  with  his  wife,  had  induced 
him  to  retire  to  the  Norrtullsgata.  Here  he  had 
rented  a  house  with  a  large  garden,  wide-stretching 
fields,  with  a  pasture,  stables,  farmyard,  and 
conservatory.  He  had  always  liked  the  occupa- 
tions of  a  country  life  and  agriculture.  Before 
this  he  had  possessed  a  piece  of  land  outside  the 
town,  but  could  not  look  after  it.  Now  he  rented 
a  garden  for  his  own  sake  and  the  children's,  whose 
education  a  little  resembled  that  described  in 
Rousseau's  Emile.  The  house  was  separated  from 
its  neighbours  by  a  long  fence.  The  Norrtulls- 
gata was  an  avenue  lined  with  trees  which  as  yet 
had  no  pavement,  and  had  been  but  little  built 
upon.  The  principal  traffic  consisted  of  peasants 
and  milk-carts  on  their  way  to  the  hay  market. 
Besides  these  there  were  also  funerals  moving 
slowly  along  to  the  "New  Churchyard,"  sledging 


48  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

parties  to  Brunnsvik,  and  young  people  on  their 
way  to  Norrbucka  or  Stallmastergarden. 

The  garden  which  surrounded  the  little  one- 
storied  house  was  very  spacious.  Long  alleys 
with  at  least  a  hundred  apple-trees  and  berry- 
bearing  bushes  crossed  each  other.  Here  and 
there  were  thick  bowers  of  lilac  and  jasmine,  and  a 
huge  aged  oak  still  stood  in  a  corner.  There  was 
plenty  of  shade  and  space,  and  enough  decay  to 
make  the  place  romantic.  East  of  the  garden  rose 
a  gravel-hill  covered  with  maples,  beeches,  and 
ash-trees ;  on  the  summit  of  it  stood  a  temple  be- 
longing to  the  last  century.  The  back  of  the  hill 
had  been  dug  away  in  parts  in  an  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  take  away  gravel,  but  it  had  pictur- 
esque little  dells  filled  with  osier  and  thorn  bushes. 
From  this  side  neither  the  street  nor  the  house 
was  visible.  From  here  one  obtained  a  view  over 
Bellevue,  Cedardalsberg,  and  Lilljanskog.  One 
saw  only  single  scattered  houses  in  the  far  dis- 
tance, but  on  the  other  hand  numberless  gardens 
and  drying-houses  for  tobacco. 

Thus  all  the  year  round  they  enjoyed  a  country 
life,  to  which  they  had  no  objection.  Now  the 
boy  could  study  at  first-hand  the  beauty  and 
secrets  of  plant  life,  and  his  first  spring  there  was  a 


BreaKin^-In  49 

period  of  wonderful  surprises.  When  the  freshly- 
turned  earth  lay  black  iinder  the  apple-tree's 
white  and  pink  canopy,  when  the  tulips  blazed  in 
oriental  pomp  of  colour,  it  seemed  to  him  as  he 
went  about  in  the  garden  as  if  he  were  assisting  at 
a  solemnity  more  even  than  at  the  school  exami- 
nation, or  in  church,  the  Christmas  festival  itself 
not  excepted. 

But  he  had  also  plenty  of  hard  bodily  exercise. 
The  boys  were  sent  with  ships'  scrapers  to  clear 
the  moss  from  the  trees;  they  weeded  the  ground, 
swept  the  paths,  watered  and  hoed.  In  the  stable 
there  was  a  cow  with  calves ;  the  hayloft  became  a 
swimming  school  where  they  sprang  from  the 
beams,  and  they  rode  the  horses  to  water. 

They  had  lively  games  on  the  hill,  rolled  down 
blocks  of  stone,  climbed  to  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
and  made  expeditions.  They  explored  the  woods 
and  bushes  in  the  Haga  Park,  climbed  up  young 
trees  in  the  ruins,  caught  bats,  discovered  edible 
wood-sorrel  and  ferns,  and  plundered  birds'  nests. 
Soon  they  laid  their  bows  and  arrows  aside,  dis- 
covered gunpowder,  and  shot  little  birds  on  the 
hills.  They  came  to  be  somewhat  uncivilised. 
They  found  school  more  distasteful  and  the  streets 

more  hateful  than  ever. 

4 


50  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

Boys'  books  also  helped  in  this  process.  Robin- 
son Crusoe  formed  an  epoch  in  his  life;  the  Dis- 
covery of  America,  the  Scalp-Hunter,  and  others 
aroused  in  him  a  sincere  dislike  of  school-books. 

During  the  long  summer  holidays  their  wildness 
increased  so  much  that  their  mother  could  no 
longer  control  the  unruly  boys.  As  an  experi- 
ment they  were  sent  at  first  to  the  swimming 
school  in  Riddarholm,  but  it  was  so  far  that  they 
wasted  half  the  day  on  the  road  thither.  Finally, 
their  father  resolved  to  send  the  three  eldest  to  a 
boarding-school  in  the  country,  to  spend  the  rest 
of  the  summer  there. 


Ill 

AWAY    FROM    HOME 

Now  he  stands  on  the  deck  of  a  steamer  far  out 
at  sea.  He  has  had  so  much  to  look  at  on  the 
journey  that  he  has  not  felt  any  tedium.  But 
now  it  is  afternoon,  which  is  always  melancholy, 
like  the  beginning  of  old  age.  The  shadows  of  the 
sun  fall  and  alter  everything  without  hiding  every- 
thing, like  the  night.  He  begins  to  miss  some- 
thing. He  has  a  feeling  of  emptiness,  of  being 
deserted,  broken  off.  He  wants  to  go  home,  but 
the  consciousness  that  he  cannot  do  so  at  once 
fills  him  with  terror  and  despair  and  he  weeps. 
When  his  brothers  ask  him  why,  he  says  he  wants 
to  go  home  to  his  mother.  They  laugh  at  him, 
but  her  image  recurs  to  his  mind,  serious,  mild, 
and  smiling.  He  hears  her  last  words  at  parting : 
"Be  obedient  and  respectful  to  all,  take  care  of 
your  clothes,  and  don't  forget  your  evening 
prayer. "     He  thinks  how  disobedient  he  has  been 

to  her,  and  wonders  whether  she  may  be  ill.     Her 

51 


52  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

image  seems  glorified,  and  draws  him  with  un- 
breakable cords  of  longing.  This  feeling  of  loneli- 
ness and  longing  after  his  mother  followed  him 
all  through  his  life.  Had  he  come  perhaps  too 
early  and  incomplete  into  the  world?  What  held 
him  so  closely  bound  to  his  mother? 

To  this  question  he  found  no  answer  either  in 
books  or  in  life.  But  the  fact  remained:  he  never 
became  himself,  was  never  liberated,  never  a 
complete  individuality.  He  remained,  as  it  were, 
a  mistletoe,  which  could  not  grow  except  upon  a 
tree;  he  was  a  climbing  plant  which  must  seek  a 
support.  He  was  naturally  weak  and  timid,  but 
he  took  part  in  all  physical  exercises;  he  was  a 
good  gymnast,  could  mount  a  horse  when  on  the 
run,  was  skilled  in  the  use  of  all  sorts  of  weapons, 
was  a  bold  shot,  swimmer,  and  sailor,  but  only  in 
order  not  to  appear  inferior  to  others.  If  no  one 
watched  him  when  bathing,  he  merely  slipped  into 
the  water;  but  if  anyone  was  watching,  he  plunged 
into  it,  head-over-heels,  from  the  roof  of  the 
bathing-shed.  He  was  conscious  of  his  timidity, 
and  wished  to  conceal  it.  He  never  attacked  his 
school-fellows,  but  if  anyone  attacked  him,  he 
would  strike  back  even  a  stronger  boy  than 
himself.      He  seemed  to  have  been  born  fright- 


A*way  From  Home  53 

ened,  and  lived  in  continual  fear  of  life  and  of 
men. 

The  ship  steams  out  of  the  bay  and  there  opens 
before  them  a  blue  stretch  of  sea  without  a  shore. 
The  novelty  of  the  spectacle,  the  fresh  wind,  the 
liveliness  of  his  brothers,  cheer  him  up.  It  has 
just  occurred  to  him  that  they  have  come  eighteen 
miles  by  sea  when  the  steamboat  turns  into  the 
Nykopingsa  river. 

When  the  gangway  has  been  run  out,  there 
appears  a  middle-aged  man  with  blond  whiskers, 
who,  after  a  short  conversation  with  the  captain, 
takes  over  charge  of  the  boys.  He  looks  friendly, 
and  is  cheerful.  It  is  the  parish  clerk  of  Vidala. 
On  the  shore  there  stands  a  waggon  with  a  black 
mare,  and  soon  they  are  above  in  the  town  and 
stop  at  a  shopkeeper's  house  which  is  also  an  inn 
for  the  country  people.  It  smells  of  herrings  and 
small  beer,  and  they  get  weary  of  waiting.  The 
boy  cries  again.  At  last  Herr  Linden  comes  in  a 
country  cart  with  their  baggage,  and  after  many 
handshakes  and  a  few  glasses  of  beer  they  leave 
the  town.  Fallow  fields  and  hedges  stretch  in  a 
long  desolate  perspective,  and  over  some  red  roofs 
there  rises  the  edge  of  a  wood  in  the  distance.  The 
sun  sets,  and  they  have  to  drive  for  three  miles 


54  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

through  the  dark  wood.  Herr  Linden  talks  briskly 
in  order  to  keep  up  their  spirits.  He  tells  them 
about  their  future  school-fellows,  the  bathing- 
places,  and  strawberry-picking.  John  sleeps  till 
they  have  reached  an  inn  where  there  are  drunken 
peasants.  The  horses  are  taken  out  and  watered. 
Then  they  continue  their  journey  through  dark 
woods.  In  one  place  they  have  to  get  down  and 
climb  up  a  hill.  The  horses  steam  with  perspira- 
tion and  snort,  the  peasants  on  the  baggage-cart 
joke  and  drink,  the  parish  clerk  chats  with  them 
and  tells  funny  stories.  Still  they  go  on  sleeping 
and  waking,  getting  down  and  resting  alternately. 
Still  there  are  more  woods,  which  used  to  be 
haunted  by  robbers,  black  pine  woods  under  the 
starry  sky,  cottages  and  hedges.  The  boy  is  quite 
alarmed,  and  approaches  the  unknown  with 
trembling. 

At  last  they  are  on  a  level  road ;  the  day  dawns, 
and  the  waggon  stops  before  a  red  house.  Oppo- 
site it  is  a  tall  dark  building — a  church — once  more 
a  church.  An  old  woman,  as  she  appears  to  him, 
tall  and  thin,  comes  out,  receives  the  boys,  and 
conducts  them  into  a  large  room  on  the  ground- 
floor,  where  there  is  a  cover-table.  She  has  a 
sharp  voice  which  does  not  sound  friendly,  and 


A-way  From  Home  55 

John  is  afraid.  They  eat  in  the  gloom,  but  do  not 
reHsh  the  unusual  food,  and  one  of  them  has  to 
choke  down  tears.  Then  they  are  led  in  the  dark 
into  an  attic.  No  lamp  is  lit.  The  room  is 
narrow;  pallets  and  beds  are  laid  across  chairs 
and  on  the  floor,  and  there  is  a  terrible  odor. 
There  is  a  stirring  in  the  beds,  and  one  head  rises, 
and  then  another.  There  are  whispers  and  mur- 
murs, but  the  new-comers  can  see  no  faces.  The 
eldest  brother  gets  a  bed  to  himself,  but  John  and 
the  second  brother  lie  foot  to  foot.  It  is  a  new 
thing  for  them,  but  they  creep  into  bed  and  draw 
the  blankets  over  them.  His  elder  brother 
stretches  himself  out  at  his  ease,  but  John  pro- 
tests against  this  encroachment.  They  push  each 
other  with  their  feet,  and  John  is  struck.  He 
weeps  at  once.  The  eldest  brother  is  already 
asleep.  Then  there  comes  a  voice  from  a  corner 
on  the  ground:  "Lie  still,  you  young  devils,  and 
don't   fight!" 

"What  do  you  say?"  answers  his  brother,  who 
is  inclined  to  be  impudent. 

The  bass  voice  answers,  "What  do  I  say?  I 
say — Leave   the   youngster   alone." 

"What  have  you  to  do  with  that?" 

"A  good  deal.    Come  here,  and  I  '11  thrash  you. " 


56  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

"  You  thrash  me  T' 

His  brother  stands  up  in  his  night-shirt.  The 
owner  of  the  bass  voice  comes  towards  him.  All 
that  one  can  see  is  a  short  sturdy  figure  with 
broad  shoulders.  A  number  of  spectators  sit  up- 
right in  their  beds. 

They  fight,  and  the  elder  brother  gets  the  worst 
of  it. 

"No!  don't  hit  him!  don't  hit  him!" 

The  small  brother  throws  himself  between  the 
combatants.  He  could  not  see  anyone  of  his  own 
flesh  and  blood  being  beaten  or  suffering  without 
feeling  it  in  all  his  nerves.  It  was  another  in- 
stance of  his  want  of  independence  and  conscious- 
ness of  the  closeness  of  the  blood-tie. 

Then  there  is  silence  and  dreamless  sleep,  which 
Death  is  said  to  resemble,  and  therefore  entices  so 
many  to  premature  rest. 

Now  there  begins  a  new  little  section  of  life — an 
education  without  his  parents,  for  the  boy  is  out  in 
the  world  among  strangers.  He  is  timid,  and 
carefully  avoids  every  occasion  of  being  blamed. 
He  attacks  no  one,  but  defends  himself  against 
bullies.  There  are,  however,  too  many  of  them 
for  the  equilibrium  to  be  maintained.  Justice  is 
administered  by  the  broad-shouldered  boy  men- 


A"way  From  Home  57 

tioned  above,  who  is  humpbacked,  and  always 
takes  the  weaker  one's  part  when  unrighteously- 
attacked. 

In  the  morning  they  do  their  lessons,  bathe 
before  dinner,  and  do  manual  labour  in  the  after- 
noon. They  weed  the  garden,  fetch  water  from 
the  spring,  and  keep  the  stable  clean.  It  is  their 
father's  wish  that  the  boys  should  do  physical 
work,  although  they  pay  the  usual  fees. 

But  John's  obedience  and  conscientiousness 
do  not  suffice  to  render  his  life  tolerable.  His 
brothers  incur  all  kinds  of  reprimands,  and  under 
them  he  also  suffers  much.  He  is  keenly  conscious 
of  their  solidarity,  and  is  in  this  summer  only  as  it 
were  the  third  part  of  a  person.  There  are  no 
other  punishments  except  detention,  but  even  the 
reprimands  disquiet  him.  Manual  labour  makes 
him  physically  strong,  but  his  nerves  are  just  as 
sensitive  as  before.  Sometimes  he  pines  for  his 
mother,  sometimes  he  is  in  extremely  high  spirits 
and  indulges  in  risky  amusements,  such  as  piling 
up  stones  in  a  limestone  quarry  and  lighting  a  fire 
at  the  bottom  of  it,  or  sliding  down  steep  hills  on 
a  board.  He  is  alternately  timid  and  daring, 
overflowing  with  spirits  or  brooding,  but  without 
proper  balance. 


58  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

The  church  stands  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
way,  and  with  its  black  roof  and  white  walls 
throws  a  shadow  across  the  summer-like  picture. 
Daily  from  his  window  he  sees  monumental  crosses 
which  rise  above  the  churchyard  wall.  The 
church  clock  does  not  strike  day  and  night  as 
that  in  the  Clara  Church  did,  but  in  the  evenings 
at  six  o'clock  one  of  the  boys  is  allowed  to  pull 
the  bell-rope  which  hangs  in  the  tower.  It  was  a 
solemn  moment  when,  for  the  first  time,  his  turn 
came.  He  felt  like  a  church  official,  and  when 
he  counted  three  times  the  three  bell-strokes,  he 
thought  that  God,  the  pastor,  and  the  congregation 
would  suffer  harm  if  he  rang  one  too  many.  On 
Sundays  the  bigger  boys  were  allowed  to  ring 
the  bells.  Then  John  stood  on  the  dark  wooden 
staircase  and  wondered. 

In  the  course  of  the  summer  there  arrived  a 
black-bordered  proclamation  which  caused  great 
commotion  when  read  aloud  in  church.  King 
Oscar  was  dead.  Many  good  things  were  reported 
of  him,  even  if  no  one  mourned  him.  And  now  the 
bells  rang  daily  between  twelve  and  one  o'clock. 
In  fact,  church-bells  seemed  to  follow  him. 

The  boys  played  in  the  churchyard  among  the 
graves  and  soon  grew  familiar  with  the  church. 


A."way  From  Home  59 

On  Sundays  they  were  all  assembled  in  the  organ- 
loft.  When  the  parish  clerk  struck  up  the  psalm, 
they  took  their  places  by  the  organ-stops,  and 
when  he  gave  them  a  sign,  all  the  stops  were  drawn 
out  and  they  marched  into  the  choir.  That  al- 
ways made  a  great  impression  on  the  congregation. 

But  the  fact  of  his  having  to  come  in  such  prox- 
imity to  holy  things,  and  of  his  handling  the  re- 
qtdsites  of  worship,  etc.,  made  him  familiar  with 
them,  and  his  respect  for  them  diminished.  For 
instance,  he  did  not  find  the  Lord's  Supper  edify- 
ing when  on  Saturday  evening  he  had  eaten  some 
of  the  holy  bread  in  the  parish  clerk's  kitchen, 
where  it  was  baked  and  stamped  with  the  im- 
pression of  a  crucifix.  The  boys  ate  these  pieces 
of  bread,  and  called  them  wafers.  Once  after  the 
Holy  Communion  he  and  the  churchwarden  were 
offered  the  rest  of  the  wine  in  the  vestry. 

Nevertheless,  after  he  had  been  parted  from 
his  mother,  and  felt  himself  surrounded  by  un- 
known threatening  powers,  he  felt  a  profound 
need  of  having  recourse  to  some  refuge  and  of 
keeping  watch.  He  prayed  his  evening  prayer 
with  a  fair  amount  of  devotion;  in  the  morning, 
when  the  sun  shone,  and  he  was  well  rested,  he  did 
not  feel  the  need  of  it. 


6o  XKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

One  day  when  the  church  was  being  aired  the 
boys  were  playing  in  it.  In  an  access  of  high 
spirits  they  stormed  the  altar.  But  John,  who 
was  egged  on  to  something  more  daring,  ran  up 
into  the  pulpit,  reversed  the  hour-glass,  and 
began  to  preach  out  of  the  Bible.  This  made  a 
great  sensation.  Then  he  descended,  and  ran 
along  the  tops  of  the  pews  through  the  whole 
church.  When  he  had  reached  the  pew  next  to 
the  altar,  which  belonged  to  a  count's  family,  he 
stepped  too  heavily  on  the  reading-desk,  which 
fell  with  a  crash  to  the  ground.  There  was  a 
panic,  and  all  the  boys  rushed  out  of  church.  He 
stood  alone  and  desolate.  In  other  circumstances 
he  would  have  run  to  his  mother,  acknowledged 
his  fault,  and  implored  her  help.  But  she  was 
not  there.  Then  he  thought  of  God;  he  fell  on 
his  knees  before  the  altar,  and  prayed  through  the 
Paternoster.  Then,  as  though  inspired  with  a 
thought  from  above,  he  arose  calmed  and  strength- 
ened, examined  the  desk,  and  found  that  its  joints 
were  not  broken.  He  took  a  clamp,  dovetailed 
the  joints  together,  and,  using  his  boot  as  a  ham- 
mer, with  a  few  well-directed  blows  repaired  the 
desk.  He  tried  it,  and  found  it  firm.  Then  he 
went  greatly  relieved  out  of  the  church.      "How 


i\"way  From  Hoxne  6i 

simple!"  he  thought  to  himself,  and  felt  ashamed 
of  having  prayed  the  Lord's  Prayer.  Why? 
Perhaps  he  felt  dimly  that  in  this  obscure  complex 
which  we  call  the  soul  there  lives  a  power  which, 
summoned  to  self-defence  at  the  hour  of  need, 
possesses  a  considerable  power  of  extricating  itself. 
He  did  not  fall  on  his  knees  and  thank  God,  and 
this  showed  that  he  did  not  believe  it  was  He  who 
had  helped  him.  That  obscure  feeling  of  shame 
probably  arose  from  the  fact  of  his  perceiving  that 
he  had  crossed  a  river  to  fetch  water,  i.  e.,  that  his 
prayer  had  been  superfluous. 

But  this  was  only  a  passing  moment  of  self- 
consciousness.  He  continued  to  be  variable  and 
capricious.  Moodiness,  caprice,  or  diahles  noirs, 
as  the  French  call  it,  is  a  not  completely  explained 
phenomenon.  The  victim  of  them  is  like  one 
possessed;  he  wants  something,  but  does  the 
opposite;  he  suffers  from  the  desire  to  do  himself 
an  injury,  and  finds  almost  a  pleasure  in  self- 
torment.  It  is  a  sickness  of  the  soul  and  of  the 
will,  and  former  psychologists  tried  to  explain  it  by 
the  hypothesis  of  a  duality  in  the  brain,  the  two 
hemispheres  of  which,  they  thought,  under  certain 
conditions  could  operate  independently  each  for 
itself  and  against  the  other.     But  this  explana- 


62  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

tion  has  been  rejected.  Many  have  observed  the 
phenomenon  of  duplex  personality,  and  Goethe 
has  handled  this  theme  in  Faust.  In  capricious 
children  who  "do  not  know  what  they  want,"  as 
the  saying  is,  the  nerve-tension  ends  in  tears. 
They  "beg  for  a  whipping,"  and  it  is  strange  that 
on  such  occasions  a  slight  chastisement  restores 
the  nervous  equilibrium  and  is  almost  welcomed 
by  the  child,  who  is  at  once  pacified,  appeased,  and 
not  at  all  embittered  by  the  punishment,  which 
in  its  view  must  have  been  unjust.  It  really  had 
asked  for  a  beating  as  a  medicine.  But  there  is 
also  another  way  of  expelling  the  "black  dog." 
One  takes  the  child  in  one's  arms  so  that  it  feels 
the  magnetism  of  friendship  and  is  quieted.  That 
is  the  best  way  of  all. 

John  suffered  from  similar  attacks  of  caprice. 
When  some  treat  was  proposed  to  him,  a  straw- 
berry-picking expedition  for  example,  he  asked  to 
be  allowed  to  remain  at  home,  though  he  knew  he 
would  be  bored  to  death  there.  He  would  have 
gladly  gone,  but  he  insisted  on  remaining  at  home. 
Another  will  stronger  than  his  own  commanded 
him  to  do  so.  The  more  they  tried  to  persuade 
him,  the  stronger  was  his  resistance.  But  then 
if  someone  came  along  jovially  and  with  a  jest 


A"way  From  Home  63 

seized  him  by  the  collar,  and  threw  him  into  the 
haycart,  he  obeyed  and  was  relieved  to  be  thus 
liberated  from  the  mysterious  will  that  mastered 
him.  Generally  speaking,  he  obeyed  gladly  and 
never  wished  to  put  himself  forward  or  be  pro- 
minent. So  much  of  the  slave  was  in  his  nature. 
His  mother  had  served  and  obeyed  in  her  youth, 
and  as  a  waitress  had  been  polite  towards  every- 
one. 

One  Sunday  they  were  in  the  parsonage,  where 
there  were  young  girls.  He  liked  them,  but  he 
feared  them.  All  the  children  went  out  to  pluck 
strawberries.  Someone  suggested  that  they  should 
collect  the  berries  without  eating  them,  in  order 
to  eat  them  at  home  with  sugar.  John  plucked 
diligently  and  kept  the  agreement;  he  did  not 
eat  one,  but  honestly  delivered  up  his  share,  though 
he  saw  others  cheating.  On  their  return  home 
the  berries  were  divided  by  the  pastor's  daughter, 
and  the  children  pressed  round  her  in  order  that 
each  might  get  a  full  spoonful.  John  kept  as  far 
away  as  possible;  he  was  forgotten  and  berryless. 

He  had  been  passed  over!  Fiill  of  the  bitter 
consciousness  of  this,  he  went  into  the  garden 
and  concealed  himself  in  an  arbour.  He  felt  him- 
self to  be  the  last  and  meanest.     He  did  not  weep, 


64  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

however,  but  was  conscious  of  something  hard  and 
cold  rising  within,  Hke  a  skeleton  of  steel.  After 
he  had  passed  the  whole  company  under  critical 
review,  he  found  that  he  was  the  most  honest, 
because  he  had  not  eaten  a  single  strawberry 
outside;  and  then  came  the  false  inference — he 
had  been  passed  over  because  he  was  better  than 
the  rest.  The  result  was  that  he  really  regarded 
himself  as  such,  and  felt  a  deep  satisfaction  at 
having  been  overlooked. 

He  had  also  a  special  skill  in  making  himself 
invisible,  or  keeping  concealed  so  as  to  be  passed 
over.  One  evening  his  father  brought  home  a 
peach.  Each  child  received  a  slice  of  the  rare 
fruit,  with  the  exception  of  John,  and  his  otherwise 
just  father  did  not  notice  it.  He  felt  so  proud 
at  this  new  reminder  of  his  gloomy  destiny  that 
later  in  the  evening  he  boasted  of  it  to  his  brothers. 
They  did  not  believe  him,  regarding  his  story  as 
improbable.  The  more  improbable  the  better,  he 
thought.  He  was  also  plagued  by  antipathies. 
One  Sunday  in  the  country  a  cart  full  of  boys 
came  to  the  parish  clerk's.  A  brown-complex- 
ioned  boy  with  a  mischievous  and  impudent  face 
alighted  from  it.  John  ran  away  at  the  first  sight 
of  him,  and  hid  himself  in  the  attic.     They  found 


A-way  From  Home  65 

him  out:  the  parish  clerk  cajoled  him,  but  he 
remained  sitting  in  his  corner  and  hstened  to 
the  children  playing  till  the  brown-complexioned 
boy  had  gone  away. 

Neither  cold  baths,  wild  games,  nor  hard  physical 
labour  could  harden  his  sensitive  nerves,  which 
at  certain  moments  became  strung  up  to  the 
highest  possible  pitch.  He  had  a  good  memory, 
and  learned  his  lessons  well,  especially  practical 
subjects  such  as  geography  and  natural  science. 
He  liked  arithmetic,  but  hated  geometry;  a  science 
which  seemed  to  deal  with  unrealities  disquieted 
him.  It  was  not  till  later,  when  a  book  of  land 
mensuration  came  into  his  hands  and  he  had 
obtained  an  insight  into  the  practical  value  of  geo- 
metry, that  the  subject  interested  him.  He  then 
measured  trees  and  houses,  the  garden  and  its 
avenues,  and  constructed  cardboard  models. 

He  was  now  entering  his  tenth  year.  He  was 
broad-shouldered,  with  a  sunburnt  complexion; 
his  hair  was  fair,  and  hung  over  a  sickly  looking 
high  and  prominent  forehead,  which  often  formed 
a  subject  of  conversation  and  caused  his  relatives 
to  give  him  the  nickname  of  "the  professor." 
He  was  no  more  an  automaton,  but  began  to 
make  his  own  observations  and  to  draw  inferences. 


66  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

He  was  approaching  the  time  when  he  would  be 
severed  from  his  surroundings  and  go  alone. 
Solitude  had  to  take  for  him  the  place  of  desert- 
wandering,  for  he  had  not  a  strong  enough  individ- 
uality to  go  his  own  way.  His  sympathies  for 
men  were  doomed  not  to  be  reciprocated,  because 
their  thoughts  did  not  keep  pace  with  his.  He 
was  destined  to  go  about  and  offer  his  heart  to  the 
first  comer;  but  no  one  would  take  it,  because 
it  was  strange  to  them,  and  so  he  would  retire 
into  himself,  wounded,  humbled,  overlooked,  and 
passed  by. 

The  summer  came  to  an  end,  and  when  the 
school-term  began  he  returned  to  Stockholm. 
The  gloomy  house  by  the  Clara  church3^ard  seemed 
doubly  depressing  to  him  now,  and  when  he  saw 
the  long  row  of  class-rooms  through  which  he  must 
work  his  way  in  a  fixed  number  of  years  in  order 
to  do  laboriously  the  same  through  another  row  of 
class-rooms  in  the  High  School,  life  did  not  seem 
to  him  particularly  inviting.  At  the  same  time 
his  self-opinionatedness  began  to  revolt  against 
the  lessons,  and  consequently  he  got  bad  reports. 
A  term  later,  when  he  had  been  placed  lower  in 
his  class,   his  father  took  him  from  the  Clara 


A,"way  From  Home  67 

School  and  placed  him  in  the  Jacob  School.  At 
the  same  time  they  left  the  Norrtiillsgata  and  took 
a  suburban  house  in  the  Stora  Grabergsgata  near 
the  Sabbatsberg. 


IV 

INTERCOURSE  WITH  THE  LOWER 
CLASSES 

Christinenberg,  so  we  will  call  the  house,  had 
a  still  more  lonely  situation  than  that  in  the 
Norrtullsgata.  ^  The  Grabergsgata  had  no  pave- 
ment. Often  for  hours  at  a  time  one  never  saw 
more  than  a  single  pedestrian  in  it,  and  the  noise 
of  a  passing  cart  was  an  event  which  brought 
people  to  their  windows.  The  house  stood  in  a 
courtyard  with  many  trees,  and  resembled  a 
country  parsonage.  It  was  surrounded  by  gardens 
and  tobacco  plantations;  extensive  fields  with 
ponds  stretched  away  to  Sabbatsberg.  But  their 
father  rented  no  land  here,  so  that  the  boys  spent 
their  time  in  loafing  about.  Their  pla3rEellows 
now  consisted  of  the  children  of  poorer  people, 
such  as  the  miller's  and  the  milkman's.  Their 
chief   playground    was   the    hill    on    which    the 

'  Gata  =  street. 

68 


Intercoxirse  ^vitH  tKe  Lower  Classes    69 

mill  stood,  and  the  wings  of  the  windmill  were  their 
playthings. 

The  Jacob  School  was  attended  by  the  poorer 
class  of  children.  Here  John  came  in  contact 
with  the  lower  orders.  The  boys  were  ill  dressed; 
they  had  sores  on  their  noses,  ugly  features, 
and  smelt  bad.  His  own  leather  breeches  and 
greased  boots  produced  no  bad  effect  here.  In 
these  surroundings,  which  pleased  him,  he  felt 
more  at  his  ease.  He  could  be  on  more  confiden- 
tial terms  with  these  boys  than  with  the  proud  ones 
in  the  Clara  School.  But  many  of  these  children 
were  very  good  at  their  lessons,  and  the  genius  of 
the  school  was  a  peasant  boy.  At  the  same  time 
there  were  so-called  "louts"  in  the  lower  classes, 
and  these  generally  did  not  get  beyond  the  second 
class.  He  was  now  in  the  third,  and  did  not  come 
into  contact  with  them,  nor  did  they  with  those 
in  the  higher  classes.  These  boys  worked  out  of 
school,  had  black  hands,  and  were  as  old  as  four- 
teen or  fifteen.  Many  of  them  were  employed 
during  the  summer  on  the  brig  Carl  Johann, 
and  then  appeared  in  autimm  with  tarry  trousers, 
belts,  and  knives.  They  fought  with  chimney- 
sweeps and  tobacco-binders,  took  drams,  and 
visited  restaurants  and  coffee-houses.    These  boys 


70  XHe  Son  of  a  Servant 

were  liable  to  ceaseless  examinations  and  ex- 
pulsions and  were  generally  regarded,  but  with 
great  injustice,  as  a  bad  lot.  Many  of  them  grew 
up  to  be  respectable  citizens,  and  one  who  had 
served  on  the  "louts'  brig"  finally  became  an 
officer  of  the  Guard.  He  never  ventured  to  talk  of 
his  sea  voyages,  but  said  that  he  used  to  shudder 
when  he  led  the  watch  to  relieve  guard  at  Nybro- 
hanm,  and  saw  the  notorious  brig  lying  there. 

One  day  John  met  a  former  school-fellow  from 
the  Clara  School,  and  tried  to  avoid  him.  But 
the  latter  came  directly  towards  him,  and  asked 
him  what  school  he  was  attending.  "Ah,  yes,'* 
he  said,  on  being  told,  "you  are  going  to  the 
louts'  school." 

John  felt  that  he  had  come  down,  but  he  had 
himself  wished  it.  He  did  not  stand  above  his 
companions,  but  felt  himself  at  home  with  them, 
on  friendly  terms,  and  more  comfortable  than  in 
the  Clara  School,  for  here  there  was  no  pressure 
on  him  from  above.  He  himself  did  not  wish 
to  climb  up  and  press  down  others,  but  he 
suffered  himself  from  being  pressed  down.  He 
himself  did  not  wish  to  ascend,  but  he  felt  a  need 
that  there  should  be  none  above  him.  But  it 
annoyed  him  to  feel  that  his  old  school-fellows 


Intercovirse  "witK  tHe  Lo-wer  Classes    71 

thought  that  he  had  gone  down.  When  at  gym- 
nastic displays  he  appeared  among  the  grimy- 
looking  troop  of  the  Jacobites,  and  met  the  bright 
files  of  the  Clara  School  in  their  handsome  uni- 
forms and  clean  faces,  then  he  was  conscious 
of  a  class  difference,  and  when  from  the  opposite 
camp  the  word  "louts"  was  heard,  then  there  was 
war  in  the  air.  The  two  schools  fought  sometimes, 
but  John  took  no  part  in  these  encounters.  He 
did  not  wish  to  see  his  old  friends,  and  to  show 
how  he  had  come  down. 

The  examination  day  in  the  Jacob  School  made 
a  very  different  impression  from  that  in  the  Clara 
School.  Artisans,  poorly  clad  old  women,  restau- 
rant-keepers dressed  up  for  the  occasion,  coach- 
men, and  publicans  formed  the  audience.  And 
the  speech  of  the  school  inspector  was  quite  other 
than  the  flowery  one  of  the  Archbishop.  He 
read  out  the  names  of  the  idle  and  the  stupid, 
scolded  the  parents  because  their  children  came 
too  late  or  did  not  turn  up  at  all,  and  the  hall  re- 
echoed the  sobs  of  poor  mothers  who  were  proba- 
bly not  at  all  to  blame  for  the  easily  explained 
non-attendances,  and  who  in  their  simplicity  be- 
lieved that  they  had  bad  sons.  It  was  always  the 
well-to-do  citizens'  sons  who  had  had  the  leisure 


72  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

to  devote  themselves  exclusively  to  their  tasks, 
who  were  now  greeted  as  patterns  of  virtue. 

In  the  moral  teaching  which  the  boy  received 
he  heard  nothing  of  his  rights,  only  of  his  duties. 
Everything  he  was  taught  to  regard  as  a  favour; 
he  lived  by  favour,  ate  by  favour,  and  went  as  a 
favour  to  school.  And  in  this  poor  children's 
school  more  and  more  was  demanded  of  them. 
It  was  demanded  from  them,  for  instance,  that 
they  should  have  untorn  clothes — but  from  whence 
were  they  to  get  them? 

Remarks  were  made  upon  their  hands  because 
they  had  been  blackened  by  contact  with  tar  and 
pitch.  There  was  demanded  of  them  attention, 
good  morals,  politeness,  i.  e.,  mere  impossibilities. 
The  aesthetic  susceptibilities  of  the  teachers  often 
led  them  to  commit  acts  of  injustice.  Near 
John  sat  a  boy  whose  hair  was  never  combed,  who 
had  a  sore  under  his  nose,  and  an  evil-smelling  flux 
from  his  ears.  His  hands  were  dirty,  his  clothes 
spotted  and  torn.  He  rarely  knew  his  lessons, 
and  was  scolded  and  caned  on  the  palms  of  his 
hands.  One  day  a  school-fellow  accused  him  of 
bringing  vermin  into  the  class.  He  was  then  made 
to  sit  apart  in  a  special  place.  He  wept  bitterly, 
ah !  so  bitterly,  and  then  kept  away  from  school. 


Intercourse  -witK  tKe  Lo"wer  Classes    73 

John  was  sent  to  look  him  up  at  his  house.  He 
Hved  in  the  Undertakers'  street.  The  painter's 
family  lived  with  the  grandmother  and  many  small 
children  in  one  room.  When  John  went  there  he 
found  George,  the  boy  in  question,  holding  on  his 
knee,  a  little  sister,  who  screamed  violently.  The 
grandmother  carried  a  little  one  on  her  arm.  The 
father  and  mother  were  away  at  work.  In  this 
room,  which  no  one  had  time  to  clean,  and  which 
could  not  be  cleaned,  there  was  a  smell  of  sulphur 
fumes  from  the  coals  and  from  the  uncleanliness 
of  the  children.  Here  the  clothes  were  dried,  food 
was  cooked,  oil-colours  were  rubbed,  putty  was 
kneaded.  Here  were  laid  bare  the  grounds  of 
George's  immorality.  "But,"  perhaps  a  moralist 
may  object,  "one  is  never  so  poor  that  one  cannot 
keep  oneself  clean  and  tidy."  Sancta  simplicitas ! 
As  if  to  pay  for  sewing  (when  there  was  anything 
whole  to  sew),  soap,  clothes- washing,  and  time 
cost  nothing.  Complete  cleanliness  and  tidiness 
is  the  highest  point  to  which  the  poor  can  attain; 
George  could  not,  and  was  therefore  cast  out. 

Some  younger  moralists  believe  they  have  made 
the  discovery  that  the  lower  classes  are  more 
immoral  than  the  higher.  By  "immoral"  they 
mean  that  they  do  not  keep  social  contracts  so 


74  XHe  Son  of  a  Servant 

well  as  the  upper  classes.  That  is  a  mistake,  if  not 
something  worse.  In  all  cases,  in  which  the  lower 
classes  are  not  compelled  by  necessity,  they  are 
more  conscientious  than  the  upper  ones.  They 
are  more  merciful  towards  their  fellows,  gentler  to 
children,  and  especially  more  patient.  How  long 
have  they  allowed  their  toil  to  be  exploited  by 
the  upper  classes,  till  at  last  they  begin  to  be 
impatient ! 

Moreover,  the  social  laws  have  been  kept  as  long 
as  possible  in  a  state  of  instability  and  uncertainty. 
Why  are  they  not  clearly  defined  and  printed  like 
civil  and  divine  laws?  Perhaps  because  an 
honestly  written  moral  law  would  have  to  take 
some  cognizance  of  rights  as  well  as  duties. 

•  •••••• 

John's  revolt  against  the  school-teaching  in- 
creased. At  home  he  learned  all  he  could,  but  he 
neglected  the  school-lessons.  The  principal  sub- 
jects taught  in  the  school  were  now  Latin  and 
Greek,  but  the  method  of  teaching  was  absurd. 
Half  a  year  was  spent  in  explaining  a  campaign  in 
Cornelius.  The  teacher  had  a  special  method 
of  confusing  the  subject  by  making  the  scholar 
analyse  the  "grammatical  construction"  of  the 
sentence.     But    he    never    explained    what    this 


Intercourse  -witK  tKe  Lo-wer  Classes    75 

meant.  It  consisted  in  reading  the  words  of  the 
text  in  a  certain  order,  but  he  did  not  say  in  which. 
It  did  not  agree  with  the  Swedish  translation,  and 
when  John  had  tried  to  grasp  the  connection,  but 
failed,  he  preferred  to  be  silent.  He  was  obstinate, 
and  when  he  was  called  upon  to  explain  something 
he  was  silent,  even  when  he  knew  his  lesson.  For 
as  soon  as  he  began  to  read,  he  was  assailed  with 
a  storm  of  reproaches  for  the  accent  he  put  on 
the  words,  the  pace  at  which  he  read,  his  voice, 
everything. 

"Cannot  you,  do  not  you  understand?"  the 
teacher  shouted,  beside  himself. 

The  boy  was  silent,  and  looked  at  the  pedant 
contemptuously. 

"Are  you  dumb?" 

He  remained  silent.  He  was  too  old  to  be 
beaten;  besides,  this  form  of  punishment  was 
gradually  being  disused.  He  was  therefore  told 
to  sit  down. 

He  could  translate  the  text  into  Swedish,  but 
not  in  the  way  the  teacher  wished.  That  the 
teacher  only  permitted  one  way  of  translating 
seemed  to  him  silly.  He  had  already  rushed 
through  Cornelius  in  a  few  weeks,  and  this 
deliberate,    imreasonable     crawling     when     one 


76  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

could  run,  depressed  him.  He  saw  no  sense  in 
it. 

The  same  kind  of  thing  happened  in  the  history 
lessons.  "  Now,  John,"  the  teacher  would  say, 
"  tell  me  what  you  know  about  Gustav  I." 

The  boy  stands  up,  and  his  vagrant  thoughts 
express  themselves  as  follows:  "What  I  know 
about  Gustav  I.  Oh!  a  good  deal.  But  I  knew  that 
when  I  was  in  the  lowest  class  (he  is  now  in  the 
fourth),  and  the  master  knows  it  too.  What  is 
the  good  of  repeating  it  all  again?" 

"Well!  is  that  all  you  know?" 

He  had  not  said  a  word  about  Gustav  I.,  and 
his  school-fellows  laughed.  Now  he  felt  angry, 
and  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words  stuck  in  his 
throat.  How  should  he  begin?  Gustav  was  born 
at  Lindholm,  in  the  province  of  Roslagen.  Yes, 
but  he  and  the  teacher  knew  that  long  ago.  How 
stupid  to  oblige  him  to  repeat  it. 

"Ah,  well!"  continues  the  teacher,  "you  don't 
know  your  lesson,  you  know  nothing  of  Gustav  I. " 

Now  he  opens  his  mouth,  and  says  curtly  and 
decidedly:  "Yes,  I  know  his  history  well." 

"  If  you  do,  why  don't  you  answer?  " 

The  master's  question  seems  to  him  a  very 
stupid  one,   and  now  he  will  not  answer.     He 


Intercourse  -witK  tHe  Lo-wer  Classes    77 

drives  away  all  thoughts  about  Gustav  I.  and 
forces  himself  to  think  of  other  things,  the  maps 
on  the  wall,  the  lamp  hanging  from  the  ceiling. 
He  pretends  to  be  deaf. 

"Sit  down,  you  don't  know  your  lesson,"  says 
the  master.  He  sits  down,  and  lets  his  thoughts 
wander  where  they  will,  after  he  has  settled  in  his 
own  mind  that  the  master  has  told  a  falsehood. 

In  this  there  was  a  kind  of  aphasia,  an  incapa- 
bility or  unwillingness  to  speak,  which  followed 
him  for  a  long  time  through  life  till  the  reaction 
set  in  in  the  form  of  garrulousness,  of  incapacity  to 
shut  one's  mouth,  of  an  impulse  to  speak  whatever 
came  into  his  mind.  He  felt  attracted  to  the 
natural  sciences,  and  during  the  hour  when  the 
teacher  showed  coloured  pictures  of  plants  and 
trees  the  gloomy  class-room  seemed  to  be  lighted 
up;  and  when  the  teacher  read  out  of  Nilsson's 
Lectures  on  A  riimal  Life,  he  listened  and  impressed 
all  on  his  memory.  But  his  father  observed  that 
he  was  backward  in  his  other  subjects,  especially 
in  Latin.  Still,  John  had  to  learn  Latin  and  Greek. 
Why?  He  was  destined  for  a  scholar's  career. 
His  father  made  inquiries  into  the  matter.  After 
hearing  from  the  teacher  of  Latin  that  the  latter 
regarded  his  son  as  an  idiot,  his  amour  propre  must 


78  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

have  been  hurt,  for  he  determined  to  send  his  son 
to  a  private  school,  where  more  practical  methods 
of  instruction  were  employed.  Indeed,  he  was 
so  annoyed  that  he  went  so  far  in  private  as  to 
praise  John's  intelligence  and  to  say  some  severe 
things  regarding  his  teacher. 

Meanwhile,  contact  with  the  lower  classes  had 
aroused  in  the  boy  a  decided  dislike  to  the  higher 
ones.  In  the  Jacob  School  a  democratic  spirit 
prevailed,  at  any  rate  among  those  of  the  same  age. 
None  of  them  avoided  each  other's  society  except 
from  feelings  of  personal  dislike.  In  the  Clara 
School,  on  the  other  hand,  there  were  marked 
distinctions  of  class  and  birth.  Though  in  the 
Jacob  School  the  possession  of  money  might  have 
formed  an  aristocratic  class,  as  a  matter  of  fact 
none  of  them  were  rich.  Those  who  were  ob- 
viously poor  were  treated  by  their  companions  sym- 
pathetically without  condescension,  although  the 
beribboned  school  inspector  and  the  academically 
educated  teacher  showed  their  aversion  to  them. 

John  felt  himself  identified  and  friendly  with 
his  school-fellows;  he  sympathised  with  them, 
but  was  reserved  towards  those  of  the  higher 
class.  He  avoided  the  main  thoroughfares,  and 
always  went  through  the  empty  Hollandergata  or 


Intercourse  -witK  tKe  Lo-wer  Classes    79 

the  poverty  stricken  Badstugata.  But  his  school- 
fellows' influence  made  him  despise  the  peasants 
who  lived  here.  That  was  the  aristocratism  of 
town-people,  with  which  even  the  meanest  and 
poorest  city  children  are  imbued. 

These  angular  figures  in  grey  coats  which 
swayed  about  on  milk-carts  or  hay-waggons  were 
regarded  as  fair  butts  for  jests,  as  inferior  beings 
whom  to  snowball  was  no  injustice.  To  mount  be- 
hind on  their  sledges  was  regarded  as  the  boys' inher- 
ent privilege.  A  standing  joke  was  to  shout  to  them 
that  their  waggon-wheels  were  going  round,  and  to 
make  them  get  down  to  contemplate  the  wonder. 

But  how  should  children,  who  see  only  the 
motley  confusion  of  society,  where  the  heaviest 
sinks  and  the  lightest  lies  on  the  top,  avoid  regard- 
ing that  which  sinks  as  the  worse  of  the  two? 
Some  say  we  are  all  aristocrats  by  instinct.  That 
is  partly  true,  but  it  is  none  the  less  an  evil  tend- 
ency, and  we  should  avoid  giving  way  to  it.  The 
lower  classes  are  really  more  democratic  than  the 
higher  ones,  for  they  do  not  want  to  mount  up  to 
them,  but  only  to  attain  to  a  certain  level;  whence 
the  assertion  is  commonly  made  that  they  wish  to 
elevate  themselves. 


8o  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

Since  there  was  now  no  longer  physical  work  to 
do  at  home,  John  lived  exclusively  an  inner,  un- 
practical life  of  imagination.  He  read  everything 
which  fell  into  his  hands. 

On  Wednesday  or  Saturday  afternoon  the  eleven- 
year-old  boy  could  be  seen  in  a  dressing-gown  and 
cap  which  his  father  had  given  him,  with  a  long 
tobacco-pipe  in  his  mouth,  his  fingers  stuck  in  his 
ears,  and  buried  in  a  book,  preferably  one  about 
Indians.     He    had    already    read    five    different 
versions  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  derived  an  in- 
credible amount  of  delight  from  them.     But  in 
reading  Campe's  edition  he  had,  like  all  children, 
skipped   the   moralisings.     Why   do   all   children 
hate  moral  applications?     Are  they  immoral  by 
nature?     "Yes,"  answer  modem  moralists,   "for 
they  are  still  animals,  and  do  not  recognise  social 
conventions."     That  is  true,  but  the  social  law 
as  taught  to  children  informs  them  only  of  their 
duties,  not  of  their  rights;  it  is  therefore  unjust 
towards  the  child,   and  children  hate  injustice. 
Besides  this,  he  had  arranged  an  herbarium,  and 
made  collections  of  insects  and  minerals.     He  had 
also  read  Liljenblad's  Flora,  which  he  had  found  in 
his  father's  bookcase.     He  liked  this  book  better 
than  the  school  botany,  because  it  contained  a 


Intercovirse  "with  tKe  Lower  Classes    8i 

quantity  of  information  regarding  the  use  of  various 
plants,  while  the  other  spoke  only  of  stamens  and 
pistils. 

When  his  brothers  deliberately  disturbed  him 
in  reading,  he  would  rim  at  them  and  threaten  to 
strike  them.  They  said  his  nerves  were  over- 
strained. He  dissolved  the  ties  which  bound  him 
to  the  realities  of  life,  he  lived  a  dream-life  in 
foreign  lands  and  in  his  own  thoughts,  and  was 
discontented  with  the  grey  monotony  of  everyday 
life  and  of  his  surroundings,  which  ever  became 
more  uncongenial  to  him.  His  father,  however, 
would  not  leave  him  entirely  to  his  own  fancies, 
but  gave  him  little  commissions  to  perform,  such 
as  fetching  the  paper  and  carrying  letters.  These 
he  looked  upon  as  encroachments  on  his  private 
life,  and  always  performed  them  unwillingly. 

In  the  present  day  much  is  said  about  truth 
and  truth-speaking  as  though  it  were  a  difficult 
matter,  which  deserved  praise.  But,  apart  from 
the  question  of  praise,  it  is  undoubtedly  diihciilt 
to  find  out  the  real  facts  about  an5rthing. 

A  person  is  not  always  what  rumour  reports  him 
or  her  to  be ;  a  whole  mass  of  public  opinion  may  be 
false;  behind  each  thought  there  lurks  a  passion; 
each  judgment  is  coloured  by  prejudice.     But  the 


82  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

art  of  separating  fact  from  fancy  is  extremely 
difficult,  e.  g.,  six  newspaper  reporters  will  describe 
a  king's  coronation  robe  as  being  of  six  different 
colours.  New  ideas  do  not  find  ready  entrance 
into  brains  which  work  in  a  groove ;  elderly  people 
believe  only  themselves,  and  the  uneducated 
believe  that  they  can  trust  their  own  eyes.  This, 
however,  owing  to  the  frequency  of  optical  illu- 
sions, is  not  the  case. 

In  John's  home  truth  was  revered.  His  father 
was  in  the  habit  of  saying,  "Tell  the  truth,  happen 
what  may,"  and  used  at  the  same  time  to  tell  a 
story  about  himself.  He  had  once  promised  a 
customer  to  send  home  a  certain  piece  of  goods 
by  a  given  day.  He  forgot  it,  but  must  have  had 
means  of  exculpating  himself,  for  when  the  furious 
customer  came  into  the  office  and  overwhelmed 
him  with  reproaches,  John's  father  humbly  ac- 
knowledged his  forgetfulness,  asked  for  forgiveness, 
and  declared  himself  ready  to  make  good  the  loss. 
The  result  was  that  the  customer  was  astonished, 
reached  him  his  hand,  and  expressed  his  regard 
for  him.  People  engaged  in  trade,  he  said,  must 
not  expect  too  much  of  each  other. 

Well !  his  father  had  a  sound  intelligence,  and  as 
an  elderly  man  felt  sure  of  his  conclusions. 


Intercovirse  -witK  tKe  Lo-wer  Classes    83 

John,  who  could  never  be  without  some  occupa- 
tion, had  discovered  that  one  could  profitably 
spend  some  time  in  loitering  on  the  high-road 
which  led  to  and  from  school.  He  had  once  upon 
the  Hollandergata,  which  had  no  pavement,  found 
an  iron  screw-nut.  That  pleased  him,  for  it  made 
an  excellent  sling-stone  when  tied  to  a  string. 
After  that  he  always  walked  in  the  middle  of  the 
street  and  picked  up  all  the  pieces  of  iron  which  he 
saw.  Since  the  streets  were  ill-paved  and  rapid 
driving  was  forbidden,  the  vehicles  which  passed 
through  them  had  a  great  deal  of  rough  usage. 
Accordingly  an  observant  passer-by  could  be  sure 
of  finding  every  day  a  couple  of  horse-shoe  nails, 
a  waggon-pin,  or  at  any  rate  a  screw-nut,  and 
sometimes  a  horse-shoe.  John's  favourite  find 
was  screw-nuts  which  he  had  made  his  specialty. 
In  the  course  of  two  months  he  had  collected  a 
considerable  quantity  of  them. 

One  evening  he  was  playing  with  them  when 
his  father  entered  the  room. 

"What  have  you  there?"  he  asked  in  astonish, 
ment. 

"Screw-nuts,"  John  answered  confidently. 

"Where  did  you  get  them  from?" 

"I  found  them." 


84  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

"Found    them?     Where?" 

"On  the  street." 

"In  one  place?" 

"No,  in  several — by  walking  down  the  middle 
of  the  street  and  looking  about." 

"Look  here!  I  don't  believe  that.  You  are 
lying.  Come  in  here.  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you."     The  something  was  a  caning. 

"Will  you  confess  now?" 

"I  have  found  them  on  the  street." 

The  cane  was  again  plied  in  order  to  make  him 
"confess."  What  should  he  confess?  Pain,  and 
fear  that  the  scene  would  continue  indefinitely, 
forced  the  following  lie  from  him : 

"I  have  stolen  them." 

"Where?" 

Now  he  did  not  know  to  which  part  of  a  car- 
riage the  screw-nuts  belonged,  but  he  guessed  it  was 
the  under  part. 

' '  Under   the   carriages . ' ' 

"Where?" 

His  fancy  suggested  a  place,  where  many  car- 
riages used  to  stand  together.  "By  the  timber- 
yard  opposite  the  lane  by  the  smith's." 

This  specification  of  the  place  lent  an  air  of 
probability  to  his  story.     His  father  was  now 


Intercourse  "witK  tKe  Lcwer  Classes    85 

certain  that  he  had  elicited  the  truth  from  him. 
He  continued : 

"And  how  could  you  get  them  off  merely  with 
your  fingers?" 

He  had  not  expected  this  question,  but  his  eye 
fell  on  his  father's  tool-box. 

"With  a  screw-driver," 

Now  one  cannot  take  hold  of  nuts  with  a  screw- 
driver, but  his  father  was  excited,  and  let  himself 
be  deceived. 

"But  that  is  abominable!  You  are  really  a 
thief.     Suppose  a  policeman  had  come  by." 

John  thought  for  a  moment  of  quieting  him  by 
telHng  him  that  the  whole  affair  was  made  up, 
but  the  prospect  of  getting  another  caning  and  no 
supper  held  him  mute.  When  he  had  gone  to  bed 
in  the  evening,  and  his  mother  had  come  and  told 
him  to  say  his  evening  prayer,  he  said  in  a  pathetic 
tone  and  raising  his  hand: 

"May  the  deuce  take  m.e,  if  I  have  stolen  the 
screw-nuts." 

His  mother  looked  long  at  him,  and  then  she 
said,  "You  should  not  swear  so." 

The  corporal  punishment  had  sickened  and 
humbled  him ;  he  was  angry  with  God,  his  parents, 
and  especially  his  brothers,  who  had  not  spoken 


86  XHe  Son  of  a  Servant 

up  for  him,  though  they  knew  the  real  state  of  the 
case.  That  evening  he  did  not  say  his  prayers, 
but  he  wished  that  the  house  would  take  fire  with- 
out his  having  to  light  it.  And  then  to  be  called 
a  thief ! 

From  that  time  he  was  suspected,  or  rather  his 
bad  reputation  was  confirmed,  and  he  felt  long 
the  sting  of  the  memory  of  a  charge  of  theft  which 
he  had  not  committed.  Another  time  he  caught 
himself  in  a  lie,  but  through  an  inadvertency  which 
for  a  long  time  he  could  not  explain.  This  in- 
cident is  related  for  the  consideration  of  parents. 
A  school-fellow  with  his  sister  came  one  Sunday 
morning  in  the  early  part  of  the  year  to  him  and 
asked  him  whether  he  wotdd  accompany  them  to 
the  Haga  Park.  He  said,  "Yes,"  but  he  must 
first  ask  his  mother's  permission.  His  father  had 
gone  out. 

"Well,  hurry  up!"  said  his  friend. 

He  wanted  to  show  his  herbarium,  but  the  other 
said,  "Let  us  go  now." 

"Very  well,  but  I  must  first  ask  mother." 

His  little  brother  then  came  in  and  wanted  to 
play  with  his  herbarium.  He  stopped  the  inter- 
ruption and  showed  his  friend  his  minerals.  In  the 
meantime  he  changed  his  blouse.     Then  he  took  a 


Intercovirse  -witK  the  Lower  Classes    87 

piece  of  bread  out  of  the  cupboard.  His  mother 
came  and  greeted  his  friends,  and  talked  of  this 
and  that  domestic  matter.  John  was  in  a  hurry, 
begged  his  mother's  permission,  and  took  his 
friends  into  the  garden  to  see  the  frog-pond. 

At  last  they  went  to  the  Haga  Park.  He  felt 
quite  sure  that  he  had  asked  his  mother's  leave  to 
do  so. 

When  his  father  came  home,  he  asked  John  on 
his  return,  "Where  have  you  been?" 

"With  friends  to  the  Haga  Park." 

"Did  you  have  leave  from  mother?" 

"Yes." 

His  mother  denied  it.  John  was  dumb  with 
astonishment. 

"Ah,  you  are  beginning  to  lie  again." 

He  was  speechless.  He  was  quite  sure  he  had 
asked  his  mother's  leave,  especially  as  there  was 
no  reason  to  fear  a  refusal.  He  had  fully  meant 
to  do  it,  but  other  matters  had  intervened;  he  had 
forgotten,  but  was  willing  to  die,  if  he  had  told  a 
lie.  Children  as  a  rule  are  afraid  to  lie,  but  their 
memory  is  short,  their  impressions  change  quickly, 
and  they  confuse  wishes  and  resolves  with  com- 
pleted acts.  Meanwhile  the  boy  long  continued 
to  believe  that  his  mother  had  told  a  falsehood. 


88  XHe  Son  of  a  Servant 

But  later,  after  frequent  reflections  on  the  incident, 
he  came  to  think  she  had  forgotten  or  not  heard 
his  request.  Later  on  still  he  began  to  suspect 
that  his  memory  might  have  played  him  a  trick. 
But  he  had  been  so  often  praised  for  his  good 
memory,  and  there  was  only  an  interval  of  two 
or  three  hours  between  his  going  to  the  Haga 
Park  and  his  return. 

His  suspicions  regarding  his  mother's  truthful- 
ness (and  why  should  she  not  tell  an  untruth, 
since  women  so  easily  confuse  fancies  and  facts?) 
were  shortly  afterwards  confirmed.  The  family 
had  bought  a  set  of  furniture — a  great  event. 
The  boys  just  then  happened  to  be  going  to  their 
aunt's.  Their  mother  still  wished  to  keep  the 
novelty  a  secret  and  to  surprise  her  sister  on  her 
next  visit.  Therefore  she  asked  the  children  not 
to  speak  of  the  matter.  On  their  arrival  at  their 
aunt's,  the  latter  asked  at  once: 

"Has  your  mother  bought  the  yellow  furni- 
ture?" 

His  brothers  were  silent,  but  John  answered 
cheerfully,  "No." 

On  their  return,  as  they  sat  at  table,  their 
mother  asked,  "Well,  did  aunt  ask  about  the 
furniture?" 


Intercourse  -witK  tHe  LoAver  Classes    89 

"Yes." 

"What    did    you    say?" 

"I  said  'No,'  "  answered  John. 

"So,  then,  you  dared  to  He,"  interrupted  his 
father. 

"Yes,  mother  said  so,"  the  boy  answered. 

His  mother  turned  pale,  and  his  father  was 
silent.  This  in  itself  was  harmless  enough,  but, 
taken  in  connection  with  other  things,  not  with- 
out significance.  Slight  suspicions  regarding  the 
truthfulness  of  "others"  w^oke  in  the  boy's  mind 
and  made  him  begin  to  carry  on  a  silent  siege  of 
adverse  criticism.  His  coldness  towards  his  father 
increased,  he  "began  to  have  a  keen  eye  for  in- 
stances of  oppression,  and  to  make  small  attempts 
at  revolt. 

The  children  were  marched  to  church  every 
Sunday;  and  the  family  had  a  key  to  their  pew. 
The  absurdly  long  services  and  incomprehensible 
sermons  soon  ceased  to  make  any  impression. 
Before  a  system  of  heating  was  introduced,  it  was 
a  perfect  torture  to  sit  in  the  pew  in  winter  for 
two  hours  at  a  stretch  with  one's  feet  freezing; 
but  still  they  were  obliged  to  go,  whether  for  their 
souls'  good,  or  for  the  sake  of  discipline,  or  in  order 
to   have    quiet   in   the   house — who   knows?  His 


90  XHe  Son  of  a  Servant 

father  personally  was  a  theist,  and  preferred  to 
read  Wallin's  sermons  to  going  to  church.  His 
mother  began  to  incline  towards  pietism. 

One  Sunday  the  idea  occurred  to  John,  possibly 
in  consequence  of  an  imprudent  Bible  exposition 
at  school,  which  had  touched  upon  freedom  of  the 
spirit,  or  something  of  the  sort,  not  to  go  to  church. 
He  simply  remained  at  home.  At  dinner,  before 
his  father  came  home,  he  declared  to  his  brothers 
and  sisters  and  aunts  that  no  one  could  compel 
the  conscience  of  another,  and  that  therefore  he 
did  not  go  to  church.  This  seemed  original,  and 
therefore  for  this  once  he  escaped  a  caning,  but 
was  sent  to  church  as  before. 

The  social  intercourse  of  the  family,  except  with 
relatives,  could  not  be  large,  because  of  the  de- 
fective form  of  his  father's  marriage.  But  com- 
panions in  misfortune  draw  together,  and  so 
intercourse  was  kept  up  with  an  old  friend  of  their 
father's  who  also  had  contracted  a  mesalliayice^ 
and  had  therefore  been  repudiated  by  his  family. 
He  was  a  legal  official.  With  him  they  met  an- 
other family  in  the  same  circumstances  owing  to 
an  irregular  marriage.  The  children  naturally 
knew  nothing  of  the  tragedy  below  the  surface. 


Intercourse  ■witK  tKe  LoAver  Classes    91 

There  were  children  in  both  the  other  famihes, 
but  John  did  not  feel  attracted  to  them.  After 
the  sufferings  he  had  undergone  at  home  and 
school,  his  shyness  and  unsociability  had  increased, 
and  his  residence  on  the  outside  of  the  town  and 
in  the  country  had  given  him  a  distaste  for  do- 
mestic life.  He  did  not  wish  to  learn  dancing,  and 
thought  the  boys  silly  who  showed  off  before  the 
girls.  When  his  mother  on  one  occasion  told  him 
to  be  polite  to  the  latter,  he  asked,  "Why?" 
He  had  become  critical,  and  asked  this  question 
about  everything.  During  a  country  excursion  he 
tried  to  rouse  to  rebellion  the  boys  who  carried 
the  girls'  shawls  and  parasols.  "Why  should 
we  be  these  girls'  servants?"  he  said;  but  they 
did  not  listen  to  him.  Finally,  he  took  such  a 
dislike  to  going  out  that  he  pretended  to  be  ill, 
or  dirtied  his  clothes  in  order  to  be  obliged 
to  stay  at  home  as  a  punishment.  He  was  no 
longer  a  child,  and  therefore  did  not  feel  com- 
fortable among  the  other  children,  but  his  elders 
still  saw  in  him  only  a  child.  He  remained 
solitary. 

When  he  was  twelve  years  old,  he  was  sent  in 
the  summer  to  another  school  kept  by  a  parish 
clerk    at    Mariefred.     Here    there   were    many 


92  XKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

boarders,  all  of  so-called  illegitimate  birth.  Since 
the  parish  clerk  himself  did  not  know  much,  he 
was  not  able  to  hear  John  his  lessons.  At  the 
first  examination  in  geometry,  he  found  that  John 
was  sufficiently  advanced  to  study  best  by  him- 
self. Now  he  felt  himself  a  grandee,  and  did 
his  lessons  alone.  The  parish  clerk's  garden  ad- 
joined the  park  of  the  lord  of  the  manor,  and 
here  he  took  his  walks  free  from  imposed  tasks 
and  free  from  oversight.  His  wings  grew,  and  he 
began  to  feel  himself  a  man. 

In  the  course  of  the  summer  he  fell  in  love  with 
the  twenty-year-old  daughter  of  the  inspector  who 
often  came  to  the  parish  clerk's.  He  never  spoke 
to  her,  but  used  to  spy  out  her  walks,  and  often 
went  near  her  house.  The  whole  affair  was  only 
a  silent  worship  of  her  beauty  from  a  distance, 
without  desire,  and  without  hope.  His  feeling 
resembled  a  kind  of  secret  trouble,  and  might  as 
well  have  been  directed  towards  anyone  else, 
if  girls  had  been  numerous  there.  It  was  a 
Madonna-worship  which  demanded  nothing  ex- 
cept to  bring  the  object  of  his  worship  some  great 
sacrifice,  such  as  drowning  himself  in  the  water 
under  her  eyes.  It  was  an  obscure  consciousness 
of  his  own  inadequacy  as  a  half  man,  who  did  not 


Interco-urse  -witH  tHe  Lo-wer  Classes    93 

wish  to  live  without  being  completed  by  his 
"better  half." 

He  continued  to  attend  church-services,  but 
they  made  no  impression  on  him;  he  found  them 
merely  tedious. 

This  summer  formed  an  important  stage  in  his 
development,  for  it  broke  the  links  with  his  home. 
None  of  his  brothers  were  with  him.  He  had 
accordingly  no  intermediary  bond  of  flesh  and 
blood  with  his  mother.  This  made  him  more 
complete  in  himself,  and  hardened  his  nerves; 
but  not  all  at  once,  for  sometimes  he  had  severe 
attacks  of  homesickness.  His  mother's  image 
rose  up  in  his  mind  in  its  usual  ideal  shape  of 
protectiveness  and  mildness,  as  the  source  of 
warmth  and  the  preserver. 

In  summer,  at  the  beginning  of  August,  his 
eldest  brother  Gustav  was  going  to  a  school  in 
Paris,  in  order  to  complete  his  business  studies 
and  to  learn  the  language.  But  previous  to  that, 
he  was  to  spend  a  month  in  the  country  and  say 
good-bye  to  his  brother.  The  thought  of  the  ap- 
proaching parting,  the  reflected  glory  of  the  great 
town  to  which  his  brother  was  going,  the  memory 
of  his  brother's  many  heroic  feats,  the  longing 
for  home   and    the   joy   to   see    again    someone 


94  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

of  his  own  flesh  and  blood, — all  combined  to  set 
John's  emotion  and  imagination  at  work.  During 
the  week  in  which  he  expected  his  brother,  he 
described  him  to  a  friend  as  a  sort  of  superman 
to  whom  he  looked  up.  And  Gustav  certainly 
was,  as  a  man,  superior  to  him.  He  was  a  plucky, 
lively  youth,  two  years  older  than  John,  with 
strong,  dark  features;  he  did  not  brood,  and  had 
an  active  temperament;  he  was  sagacious,  could 
keep  silence  when  necessary,  and  strike  when 
occasion  demanded  it.  He  understood  economy, 
and  was  sparing  of  his  money.  "He  was  very 
wise,"  thought  the  dreaming  John.  He  learned 
his  lessons  imperfectly,  for  he  despised  them,  but 
he  understood  the  art  of  life. 

John  needed  a  hero  to  worship,  and  wished  to 
form  an  ideal  out  of  some  other  material  than  his 
own  weak  clay,  round  which  his  own  aspirations 
might  gather,  and  now  he  exercised  his  art  for 
eight  days.  He  prepared  for  his  brother's  arrival 
by  painting  him  in  glowing  colours  before  his 
friends,  praised  him  to  the  teacher,  sought  out 
playing-places  with  little  surprises,  contrived  a 
spring-board  at  the  bathing-place,  and  so 
on. 

On  the  day  before  his  brother's  arrival  he  went 


Intercourse  -witK  tKe  Lo-wer  Classes    95 

into  the  wood  and  plucked  cloud-berries  and  blue- 
berries for  him.  He  covered  a  table  with  white 
paper,  on  which  he  spread  out  the  berries,  yellow 
and  blue  alternately,  and  in  the  centre  he  ar- 
ranged them  in  the  shape  of  a  large  G,  and  sur- 
rounded the  whole  with  flowers. 

His  brother  arrived,  cast  a  hasty  look  at  the 
design  and  ate  the  berries,  but  either  did  not 
notice  the  dexterously-contrived  initial,  or  thought 
it  a  piece  of  childishness.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
in  their  family  every  ebulHtion  of  feeling  was 
regarded  as  childish. 

Then  they  went  to  bathe.  The  minute  after 
Gustav  had  taken  off  his  shirt,  he  was  in  the 
water,  and  swam  immediately  out  to  the  buoy. 
John  admired  him  and  would  have  gladly  followed 
him,  but  this  time  it  gave  him  more  pleasure  to 
think  that  his  brother  obtained  the  reputation  of 
being  a  good  swimmer,  and  that  he  was  only 
second-best.  At  dinner  Gustav  left  a  fat  piece  of 
bacon  on  his  plate — a  thing  which  no  one  before 
had  ever  dared  to  do.  But  he  dared  everything. 
In  the  evening,  when  the  time  came  to  ring  the 
bells  for  church,  John  gave  up  his  turn  of  ringing 
to  Gustav,  who  rang  violently.  John  was  fright- 
ened,  as   though   the   parish  had  been   exposed 


96  XKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

to  danger  thereby,  and  half  in  alarm  and  half 
laughing,   begged  him  to  stop. 

"What  the  deuce  does  it  matter?"  said  Gustav. 

Then  he  introduced  him  to  his  friend  the  big 
son  of  the  carpenter,  who  was  about  fifteen.  An 
intimacy  at  once  sprang  up  between  the  two  of 
equal  age,  and  John's  friend  abandoned  him  as 
being  too  small.  But  John  felt  no  bitterness, 
although  the  two  elder  ones  jested  at  him,  and 
went  out  alone  together  with  their  guns  in  their 
hands.  He  only  wished  to  give,  and  he  would 
have  given  his  betrothed  away,  had  he  possessed 
one.  He  did  actually  inform  his  brother  about  the 
inspector's  daughter,  and  the  latter  was  pleased 
with  her.  But,  instead  of  sighing  behind  the 
trees  like  John,  Gustav  went  straight  up  to  her 
and  spoke  to  her  in  an  innocent  boyish  way. 
This  was  the  most  daring  thing  which  John  had 
ever  seen  done  in  his  life,  and  he  felt  as  if  it  had 
added  a  foot  to  his  own  stature.  He  became  visibly 
greater,  his  weak  soul  caught  a  contagion  of 
strength  from  his  brother's  strong  nerves,  and  he 
identified  himself  with  him.  He  felt  as  happy  as 
if  he  had  spoken  with  the  girl  himself.  He  made 
suggestions  for  excursions  and  boating  expeditions 
and    his    brother    carried    them    out.     He    dis- 


Intercourse  -with  the  Lower  Classes 


97 


covered  birds'  nests  and  his  brother  cUmbed  the 
trees  and  plundered  them. 

But  this  lasted  only  for  a  week.  On  the  last 
day  before  they  were  to  leave,  John  said  to 
Gustav:  "Let  us  buy  a  fine  bouquet  for  mother." 

"Very  well,"  replied  his  brother. 

They  went  to  the  nursery-man,  and  Gustav 
gave  the  order  that  the  bouquet  should  be  a  fine 
one.  While  it  was  being  made  up,  he  went  into 
the  garden  and  plucked  fruit  quite  openly.  John 
did  not  venture  to  touch  anything. 

"Eat,"  said  his  brother.  No,  he  could  not. 
When  the  bouquet  was  ready,  John  paid  twenty- 
four  shillings  for  it.  Not  a  sign  came  from 
Gustav.     Then  they  parted. 

When  John  came  home,  he  gave  his  mother  the 
bouquet  as  from  Gustav,  and  she  was  touched.  At 
supper- time  the  flowers  attracted  his  father's 
attention.  "Gustav  sent  me  those,"  said  his 
mother.  "He  is  always  a  kind  boy,"  and  John 
received  a  sad  look  because  he  was  so  cold-hearted. 
His  father's  eyes  gleamed  behind  his  glasses. 

John  felt  no  bitterness.  His  youthful,  enthusi- 
astic love  of  sacrifice  had  found  vent,  the  struggle 
against  injustice  had  made  him  a  self-tormentor, 
and  he  kept  silent.     He  also  said  nothing  when  his 


98  TKe  Son  of  a   Servant 

father  sent  Gustav  a  present  of  money,  and  with 
unusual  warmth  of  expression  said  how  deeply 
he  had  been  touched  by  this  graceful  expression 
of  affection. 

In  fact,  he  kept  silence  regarding  this  incident 
during  his  whole  life,  even  when  he  had  occasion 
to  feel  bitterness.  Not  till  he  had  been  over- 
powered and  fallen  in  the  dirty  sand  of  life's 
arena,  with  a  brutal  foot  placed  upon  his  chest 
and  not  a  hand  raised  to  plead  in  his  behalf,  did 
he  say  anything  about  it.  Even  then,  it  was  not 
mentioned  from  a  feeling  of  revenge,  but  as  the 
self-defence  of  a  dying  man. 


CONTACT   WITH    THE   UPPER   CLASSES 

The  private  schools  had  been  started  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  terrorising  sway  of  the  public 
schools.  Since  their  existence  depended  on  the 
goodwill  of  the  pupils,  the  latter  enjoyed  great 
freedom,  and  were  treated  humanely.  Corporal 
punishment  was  forbidden,  and  the  pupils  were 
accustomed  to  express  their  thoughts,  to  ask 
questions,  to  defend  themselves  against  charges, 
and,  in  a  word,  were  treated  as  reasonable  beings. 
Here  for  the  first  time  John  felt  that  he  had  rights. 
If  a  teacher  made  a  mistake  in  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  pupils  were  not  obliged  to  echo  him,  and 
swear  by  his  authority;  he  was  corrected  and 
spiritually  lynched  by  the  class  who  convinced 
him  of  his  error.  Rational  methods  of  teaching 
were  also  employed.  Few  lessons  were  set  to  be 
done  at  home.  Cursory  explanations  in  the 
languages   themselves   gave   the   pupils   an   idea 

99 


lOO  XHe  Son  of  a  Servant 

of  the  object  aimed  at,  i.e.,  to  be  able  to  translate. 
Moreover,  foreign  teachers  were  appointed  for 
modern  languages,  so  that  the  ear  became  accus- 
tomed to  the  correct  accent,  and  the  pupils  ac- 
quired some  notion  of  the  right  pronunciation. 

A  number  of  boys  had  come  from  the  state 
schools  into  this  one,  and  John  also  met  here  many 
of  his  old  comrades  from  the  Clara  School.  Pie 
also  found  some  of  the  teachers  from  both  the 
Clara  and  Jacob  Schools.  These  cut  quite  a 
different  figure  here,  and  played  quite  another 
part.  He  understood  now  that  they  had  been  in 
the  same  hole  as  their  victims,  for  they  had  had 
the  headmaster  and  the  School  Board  over  them. 
At  last  the  pressure  from  above  was  relaxed,  his 
will  and  his  thoughts  obtained  a  measure  of  free- 
dom, and  he  had  a  feeling  of  happiness  and  well- 
being. 

At  home  he  praised  the  school,  thanked  his 
parents  for  his  liberation,  and  said  that  he  pre- 
ferred it  to  any  former  one.  He  forgot  former 
acts  of  injustice,  and  became  more  gentle  and  un- 
reserved in  his  behaviour.  His  mother  began 
to  admire  his  erudition.  He  learned  five  languages 
besides  his  own.  His  eldest  brother  was  already  in 
a  place  of  business,  and  the  second  in  Paris.     John 


Contact  witK  the  Upper  Classes    loi 

received  a  kind  of  promotion  at  home  and  became 
a  companion  to  his  mother.  He  gave  her  in- 
formation from  books  on  history  and  natural 
history,  and  she,  having  had  no  education,  listened 
with  docility.  But  after  she  had  listened  awhile, 
whether  it  was  that  she  wished  to  raise  herself  to 
his  level,  or  that  she  really  feared  worldly  know- 
ledge, she  would  speak  of  the  only  knowledge 
which,  she  said,  could  make  man  happy.  She 
spoke  of  Christ ;  John  knew  all  this  very  well,  but 
she  understood  how  to  make  a  personal  appli- 
cation. He  was  to  beware  of  intellectual  pride, 
and  always  to  remain  simple.  The  boy  did  not 
understand  what  she  meant  by  "simple,"  and 
what  she  said  about  Christ  did  not  agree  with  the 
Bible.  There  was  something  morbid  in  her  point 
of  view,  and  he  thought  he  detected  the  dislike  of 
the  uncultured  to  culture.  "Why  all  this  long 
school  course,"  he  asked  himself,  "if  it  was  to 
be  regarded  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  the 
mysterious  doctrine  of  Christ's  Atonement?"  He 
knew  also  that  his  mother  had  caught  up  this  talk 
from  conversations  with  nurses,  seamstresses,  and 
old  women,  who  went  to  the  dissenting  chapels. 
"Strange,"  he  thought,  "that  people  like  that 
should  grasp  the  highest  wisdom  of  which  neither 


102  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

the  priest  in  the  church  nor  the  teacher  in  the 
school  had  the  least  notion!"  He  began  to  think 
that  these  humble  pietists  had  a  good  deal  of 
spiritual  pride,  and  that  their  way  to  wisdom 
was  an  imaginary  short-cut.  Moreover,  among 
his  school-fellows  there  were  sons  of  barons 
and  counts,  and,  when  in  his  stories  out  of  school 
he  mentioned  noble  titles,  he  was  warned  against 
pride. 

Was  he  proud?  Very  likely;  but  in  school  he 
did  not  seek  the  company  of  aristocrats,  though 
he  preferred  looking  at  them  rather  than  at  the 
others,  because  their  fine  clothes,  their  handsome 
faces,  and  their  polished  finger-nails  appealed  to 
his  aesthetic  sense.  He  felt  that  they  were  of  a 
different  race  and  held  a  position  which  he  would 
never  reach,  nor  try  to  reach,  for  he  did  not 
venture  to  demand  anything  of  life.  But  when, 
one  day,  a  baron's  son  asked  for  his  help  in  a 
lesson,  he  felt  himself  in  this  matter,  at  any  rate, 
his  equal  or  even  his  superior.  He  had  thereby 
discovered  that  there  was  something  which  could 
set  him  by  the  side  of  the  highest  in  society,  and 
which  he  could  obtain  for  himself,  i.e.,  knowledge. 

In  this  school,  because  of  the  liberal  spirit  which 
was  present,  there  prevailed  a  democratic  tone,  of 


Contact  with  the  Upper  Classes     103 

which  there  had  been  no  trace  in  the  Clara  School. 
The  sons  of  counts  and  barons,  who  were  for  the 
most  part  idle,  had  no  advantage  above  the  rest. 
The  headmaster,  who  himself  was  a  peasant's  son 
from  Smaland,  had  no  fear  of  the  nobility,  nor,  on 
the  other  hand,  had  he  any  prejudice  against  them 
or  wish  to  humiliate  them.  He  addressed  them  all, 
small  and  big  ones,  familiarily,  studied  them  in- 
dividually, called  them  by  their  Christian  names, 
and  took  a  personal  interest  in  them.  The  daily 
intercourse  of  the  townspeople's  sons  with  those  of 
the  nobility  led  to  their  being  on  familiar  terms 
with  one  another.  There  were  no  flatterers,  ex- 
cept in  the  upper  division,  where  the  adolescent 
aristocrats  came  into  class  with  their  riding-whips 
and  spurs,  while  a  soldier  held  their  horses  outside. 
The  precociously  prudent  boys,  who  had  already 
an  insight  into  the  art  of  life,  courted  these  youths, 
but  their  intercourse  was  for  the  most  part  super- 
ficial. In  the  autumn  term  some  of  the  young 
grandees  returned  from  their  expeditions  as  super- 
numerary naval  cadets.  They  then  appeared  in 
class  with  uniform  and  dirk.  Their  fellows  ad- 
mired them,  many  envied  them,  but  John,  with  the 
slave  blood  in  his  veins,  was  never  presumptuous 
enough  to  think  of  rivalling  them;  he  recognised 


104  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

their  privileges,  never  dreamed  of  sharing  them, 
guessed  that  he  would  meet  with  humiliations 
among  them,  and  therefore  never  intruded  into 
their  circle.  But  he  did  dream  of  reaching  equal 
heights  with  theirs  through  merit  and  hard  work. 
And  when  in  the  spring  those  who  were  leaving 
came  into  the  classes  to  bid  farewell  to  their 
teachers,  when  he  saw  their  white  students*  caps, 
their  free  and  easy  manners  and  ways,  then  he 
noticed  that  they  were  also  an  object  of  admiration 
to  the  naval  cadets. 

In  his  family  life  there  was  now  a  certain  degree 
of  prosperity.  They  had  gone  back  to  the  Norr- 
tullsgata,  where  it  was  more  homely  than  the 
Sabbatsberg,  and  the  landlord's  sons  were  his 
school-fellows.  His  father  no  longer  rented  a 
garden,  and  John  busied  himself  for  the  most  part 
with  his  books.  He  led  the  life  of  a  well-to-do- 
youth.  Things  were  more  cheerful  at  home; 
grown-up  cousins  and  the  clerks  from  his  father's 
office  came  on  Sundays  for  visits,  and  John,  in 
spite  of  his  youth,  made  one  of  the  company.  He 
now  wore  a  coat,  took  care  of  his  personal  appear- 
ance, and,  as  a  promising  scholar,  was  thought 
more  highly  of  than  one  of  his  years  would  other- 


Contact  "witH  tKe  Upper  Classes     105 

wise  have  been.  He  went  for  walks  in  the  garden, 
but  the  berries  and  the  apple-trees  no  longer 
tempted  him. 

From  time  to  time  there  came  letters  from  his 
brother  in  Paris.  They  were  read  aloud,  and 
listened  to  with  great  attention.  They  were  also 
read  to  friends  and  acquaintances,  and  that  was  a 
triumph  for  the  family.  At  Christmas  his  brother 
sent  a  photograph  of  himself  in  a  French  school 
uniform.  That  was  the  climax.  John  had  now 
a  brother  who  wore  a  uniform  and  spoke  French! 
He  exhibited  the  photograph  in  the  school,  and 
rose  in  the  social  scale  thereby.  The  naval  cadets 
were  envious,  and  said  it  was  not  a  proper  uniform, 
for  he  had  no  dirk.  But  he  had  a  "kepi,"  and 
shining  buttons,  and  some  gold  lace  on  his 
collar. 

At  home  they  had  also  stereoscopic  pictures 
from  Paris  to  show,  and  they  now  seemed  to  live 
in  Paris.  They  were  as  familiar  with  the  Tuileries 
and  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  as  with  the  castle  and 
statue  of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  The  proverb  that 
a  father  "lives  in  his  children"  really  seemed  to  be 
justified.  Life  now  lay  open  before  the  youth; 
the  pressure  he  had  formerly  been  subjected  to  had 
diminished,  and  perhaps  he  would  have  traversed  a 


lo6  The  Son  of  a  Servant 

smooth  and  easy  path  through  life  if  a  change  of 
circumstances  had  not  thrown  him  back. 

His  mother  had  passed  through  twelve  confine- 
ments, and  consequently  had  become  weak.  Now 
she  was  obliged  to  keep  her  bed,  and  only  rose  occa- 
sionally. She  was  more  given  to  moods  than  before, 
and  contradictions  would  set  her  cheek  aflame. 
The  previous  Christmas  she  had  fallen  into  a 
violent  altercation  with  her  brother  regarding  the 
pietist  preachers.  While  sitting  at  the  dinner- 
table,  the  latter  had  expressed  his  preference  for 
Fredman's  Epislles  as  exhibiting  deeper  powers  of 
thought  than  the  sermons  of  the  pietists.  John's 
mother  took  fire  at  this,  and  had  an  attack  of 
hysteria.     That  was  only  a  symptom. 

Now,  during  the  intervals  when  she  got  up,  she 
began  to  mend  the  children's  linen  and  clothes, 
and  to  clear  out  all  the  drawers.  She  often  talked 
to  John  about  religion  and  other  high  matters. 
One  day  she  showed  him  some  gold  rings.  "You 
boys  will  get  these,  when  Mamma  is  dead,"  she 
said.  "Which  is  mine?"  asked  John,  without 
stopping  to  think  about  death.  She  showed  him 
a  plaited  girl's  ring  with  a  heart.  It  made  a  deep 
impression  on  the  boy,  who  had  never  possessed 
anything  of  gold,  and  he  often  thought  of  the  ring. 


Contact  MritH  tHe  Upper  Classes     107 

About  that  time  a  nurse  was  hired  for  the 
children.  She  was  young  and  good-looking,  taci- 
turn, and  smiled  in  a  critical  sort  of  way.  She  had 
served  in  a  count's  mansion  in  the  Tradgardsgatan, 
and  probably  thought  that  she  had  come  into  a 
poverty-stricken  house.  She  was  supposed  to 
look  after  the  children  and  the  servant-maids,  but 
was  on  almost  intimate  terms  with  the  latter. 
There  were  now  three  servants — a  housekeeper, 
a  man-servant,  and  a  girl  from  Dalecarlia.  The 
girls  had  their  lovers,  and  a  cheerful  life  went  on  in 
the  great  kitchen,  where  polished  copper  and  tin 
vessels  shone  brightly.  There  was  eating  and 
drinking,  and  the  boys  were  invited  in.  They 
were  called  "sir,"  and  their  health  was  drunk. 
Only  the  man-servant  was  not  there;  he  thought 
it  was  "vulgar"  to  live  like  that,  while  the  mistress 
of  the  house  was  ill.  The  home  seemed  to  be 
undergoing  a  process  of  dissolution,  and  John's 
father  had  had  many  difficulties  with  the  servants 
since  his  mother  had  been  obliged  to  keep  her  bed. 
But  she  remained  the  servants'  friend  till  death, 
and  took  their  side  by  instinct,  but  they  abused 
her  partiality.  It  was  strictly  forbidden  to  excite 
the  patient,  but  the  servants  intrigued  against 
each  other,  and  against  their  master.     One  day 


io8  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

John  had  melted  lead  in  a  silver  spoon.  The 
cook  blabbed  of  it  to  his  mother,  who  was  excited 
and  told  his  father.  But  his  father  was  only- 
annoyed  with  the  tell-tale.  He  went  to  John  and 
said  in  a  friendly  way,  as  though  he  were  com- 
pelled to  make  a  complaint:  "You  should  not 
melt  lead  in  silver  spoons.  I  don't  care  about 
the  spoon ;  that  can  be  repaired ;  but  this  devil  of  a 
cook  has  excited  mother.  Don't  tell  the  girls 
when  you  have  done  something  stupid,  but  tell 
me,  and  we  will  put  it  right. " 

He  and  his  father  were  now  friends  for  the 
first  time,  and  he  loved  him  for  his  condescension. 

One  night  his  father's  voice  awoke  him  from 
sleep.  He  started  up,  and  found  it  dark  in  the 
room.  Through  the  darkness  he  heard  a  deep 
trembling  voice,  "Come  to  mother's  death-bed!" 
It  went  through  him  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  He 
froze  and  shivered  while  he  dressed,  the  skin  of 
his  head  felt  ice-cold,  his  eyes  were  wide-open 
and  streaming  with  tears,  so  that  the  flame  of  the 
lamp  looked  like  a  red  bladder. 

Then  they  stood  roimd  the  sick-bed  and  wept 
for  one,  two,  three  hours.  The  night  crept  slowly 
onward.  His  mother  was  unconscious  and  knew 
no  one.     The  death-struggle,  with  rattling  in  the 


Contact  -witK  tKe  Upper  Classes     109 

throat,  and  cries  for  help,  had  commenced.  The 
httle  ones  were  not  aroused.  John  thought  of  all 
the  sins  which  he  had  committed,  and  found  no 
good  deeds  to  counterbalance  them.  After  three 
hours  his  tears  ceased,  and  his  thoughts  began  to 
take  various  directions.  The  process  of  dying 
was  over.  "How  will  it  be,"  he  asked  himself, 
"when  mother  is  no  longer  there?"  Nothing  but 
emptiness  and  desolation,  without  comfort  or 
compensation — a  deep  gloom  of  wretchedness  in 
which  he  searched  for  some  point  of  light.  His 
eye  fell  on  his  mother's  chest  of  drawers,  on  which 
stood  a  plaster  statuette  of  Linnaeus  with  a  flower 
in  his  hand.  There  was  the  only  advantage  which 
this  boundless  misfortune  brought  with  it — he 
would  get  the  ring.  He  saw  it  in  imagination  on 
his  hand.  "That  is  in  memory  of  my  mother," 
he  would  be  able  to  say,  and  he  would  weep  at  the 
recollection  of  her,  but  he  could  not  suppress  the 
thought,  "A  gold  ring  looks  fine  after  all." 
Shame!  Who  could  entertain  such  thoughts 
at  his  mother's  death-bed?  A  brain  that  was 
drunk  with  sleep?  A  child  which  had  wept  itself 
out?  Oh,  no,  an  heir.  Was  he  more  avaricious 
than  others?  Had  he  a  natural  tendency  to  greed? 
No,  for  then  he  would  never  have  related  the 


no  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

matter,  but  he  bore  it  in  memory  his  whole  life 
long;  it  kept  on  turning  up,  and  when  he  thought 
of  it  in  sleepless  nights,  and  hours  of  weariness,  he 
felt  the  flush  mount  into  his  cheeks.  Then  he 
instituted  an  examination  of  himself  and  his  con- 
duct, and  blamed  himself  as  the  meanest  of  all 
men.  It  was  not  till  he  was  older  and  had  come 
to  know  a  great  number  of  men,  and  studied  the 
processes  of  thought,  that  he  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  brain  is  a  strange  thing  which 
goes  its  own  way,  and  there  is  a  great  similarity 
among  men  in  the  double  life  which  they  lead, 
the  outward  and  the  inward,  the  life  of  speech  and 
that  of  thought. 

John  was  a  compound  of  romanticism,  pietism, 
realism,  and  naturalism.  Therefore  he  was  never 
anything  but  a  patchwork.  He  certainly  did  not 
exclusively  think  about  the  wretched  ornament. 
The  whole  matter  was  only  a  momentary  distrac- 
tion of  two  minutes'  duration  after  months  of 
sorrow,  and  when  at  last  there  was  stillness  in  the 
room,  and  his  father  said,  "Mother  is  dead,"  he 
was  not  to  be  comforted.  He  shrieked  like  one 
drowning.  How  can  death  bring  such  profound 
despair  to  those  who  hope  to  meet  again?  It  must 
needs  press  hard  on  faith  when  the  annihilation  of 


Contact  "witK  tHe  Upper  Classes     m 

personality  takes  place  with  such  inflexible  con- 
sistency before  our  eyes.  John's  father,  who 
generally  had  the  outward  imperturbability  of  the 
Icelander,  was  now  softened.  He  took  his  sons 
by  the  hands  and  said:  "God  has  visited  us;  we 
will  now  hold  together  like  friends.  Men  go  about 
in  their  self-sufficiency,  and  believe  they  are 
enough  for  themselves ;  then  comes  a  blow,  and  we 
see  how  we  all  need  one  another.  We  will  be 
sincere  and  considerate  with  each  other." 

The  boy's  sorrow  was  for  a  moment  relieved. 
He  had  found  a  friend,  a  strong,  wise,  manly  friend 
whom  he  admired. 

White  sheets  were  now  hung  up  at  the  windows 
of  the  house  in  sign  of  mourning.  "You  need  not 
go  to  school,  if  you  don't  want  to, "  said  his  father. 
"If  you  don't  want" — that  was  acknowledgment 
that  he  had  a  will  of  his  own.  Then  came  aunts, 
cousins,  relations,  nurses,  old  servants,  and  all 
called  down  blessings  on  the  dead.  All  offered 
their  help  in  making  the  mourning  clothes — there 
were  four  small  and  three  elder  children.  Young 
girls  sat  by  the  sickly  light  that  fell  through  the 
sheeted  windows  and  sewed,  while  they  conversed 
in  undertones.  That  was  melancholy,  and  the 
period   of   mourning  brought   a  whole  chain   of 


112  XKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

peculiar  experiences  with  it.  Never  had  the  boy 
been  the  object  of  so  much  sympathy,  never  had 
he  felt  so  many  warm  hands  stretched  out,  nor 
heard  so  many  friendly  words. 

On  the  next  Sunday  his  father  read  a  sermon  of 
Wallin's  on  the  text  "Our  friend  is  not  dead,  but 
she  sleeps."  With  what  extraordinary  faith  he 
took  these  words  literally,  and  how  well  he  under- 
stood how  to  open  the  wounds  and  heal  them 
again!  "She  is  not  dead,  but  she  sleeps,"  he 
repeated  cheerfully.  The  mother  really  slept  there 
in  the  cold  anteroom,  and  no  one  expected  to  see 
her  awake. 

The  time  of  burial  approached;  the  place  for 
the  grave  was  bought.  His  father's  sister-in-law 
helped  to  sew  the  suits  of  mourning;  she  sewed 
and  sewed,  the  old  mother  of  seven  penniless 
children,  the  once  rich  burgher's  wife,  sewed  for 
the  children  of  the  marriage  which  her  husband 
had  cursed. 

One  day  she  stood  up  and  asked  her  brother-in- 
law  to  speak  with  her  privately.  She  whispered 
with  him  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  The  two  old 
people  embraced  each  other  and  wept.  Then 
John's  father  told  them  that  their  mother  would 
be  laid  in  their  uncle's  family  grave.     This  was  a 


Contact  -witH  tKe  Upper  Classes     113 

much-admired  monument  in  the  new  churchyard, 
which  consisted  of  an  iron  pillar  surmotmted  by  an 
urn.  The  boys  knew  that  this  was  an  honour  for 
their  mother,  but  they  did  not  understand  that  by 
her  burial  there  a  family  quarrel  had  been  extin- 
guished, and  justice  done  after  her  death  to  a  good 
and  conscientious  woman  who  had  been  despised 
because  she  became  a  mother  before  her  marriage. 

Now  all  was  peace  and  reconciliation  in  the 
house,  and  they  vied  with  one  another  in  acts  of 
friendliness.  They  looked  frankly  at  each  other, 
avoided  anything  that  might  cause  disturbance, 
and  anticipated  each  other's  wishes. 

Then  came  the  day  of  the  funeral.  When  the 
coffin  had  been  screwed  down  and  was  carried 
through  the  hall,  which  was  filled  with  mourners 
dressed  in  black,  one  of  John's  little  sisters  began 
to  cry  and  flung  herself  in  his  arms.  He  took  her 
up  and  pressed  her  to  himself,  as  though  he  were 
her  mother  and  wished  to  protect  her.  When  he 
felt  how  her  trembling  little  body  clung  close  to 
him,  he  grew  conscious  of  a  strength  which  he  had 
not  felt  for  a  long  time.  Comfortless  himself  he 
could  bestow  comfort,  and  as  he  quieted  the  child 
he  himself  grew  calm.  The  black  coffin  and  the 
crowd  of  people  had  frightened  her — that  was  all ; 


114  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

for  the  smaller  children  hardly  missed  their 
mother;  they  did  not  weep  for  her,  and  had  soon 
forgotten  her.  The  tie  between  mother  and  child 
is  not  formed  so  quickly,  but  only  through  long 
personal  acquaintance.  John's  real  sense  of  loss 
hardly  lasted  for  a  quarter  of  a  year.  He  mourned 
for  her  indeed  a  long  time,  but  that  was  more 
because  he  wished  to  continue  in  that  mood, 
though  it  was  only  an  expression  of  his  natural 
melancholy,  which  had  taken  the  special  form  of 
mourning  for  his  mother. 

After  the  funeral  there  followed  a  long  summer 
of  leisure  and  freedom.  John  occupied  two  rooms 
with  his  eldest  brother,  who  did  not  return  from 
business  till  the  evening.  His  father  was  out  the 
whole  day,  and  when  they  met  they  were  silent. 
They  had  laid  aside  enmity,  but  intimacy  was 
impossible.  John  was  now  his  own  master;  he 
came  and  went,  and  did  what  he  liked.  His 
father's  housekeeper  was  sympathetic  with  him, 
and  they  never  quarrelled.  He  avoided  inter- 
course with  his  school-fellows,  shut  himself  in  his 
room,  smoked,  read,  and  meditated.  He  had 
always  heard  that  knowledge  was  the  best  thing,  a 
capital  fund  which  could  not  be  lost,  and  which 
afforded  a  footing,  however  low  one  might  sink  in 


Contact  -witK  tHe  Upper  Classes     115 

the  social  scale.  He  had  a  mania  for  explaining 
and  knowing  everything.  He  had  seen  his  eldest 
brother's  drawings  and  heard  them  praised.  In 
school  he  had  drawn  only  geometrical  figures. 
Accordingly,  he  wished  to  draw,  and  in  the  Christ- 
mas holidays  he  copied  with  furious  diligence  all 
his  brother's  drawings.  The  last  in  the  collection 
was  a  horse.  When  he  had  finished  it,  and  saw 
that  it  was  unsatisfactory,  he  had  done  with 
drawing. 

All  the  children  except  John  could  play  some 
instrument.  He  heard  scales  and  practising  on 
the  piano,  violin,  and  violoncello,  so  that  music 
was  spoiled  for  him  and  became  a  nuisance,  like  the 
church-bells  had  formerly  been.  He  would  have 
gladly  played,  but  he  did  not  wish  to  practise 
scales.  He  took  pieces  of  music  when  no  one  was 
looking  and  played  them — as  might  be  supposed — 
very  badly,  but  it  pleased  him.  As  a  compensa- 
tion for  his  vanity,  he  determined  to  learn  techni- 
cally the  pieces  which  his  sisters  played,  so  that  he 
surpassed  them  in  the  knowledge  of  musical 
technique.  Once  they  wanted  someone  to  copy 
the  music  of  the  Zauberflote  arranged  for  a 
quartette.     John  offered  to  do  so. 

"Can  you  copy  notes?"  he  was  asked. 


ii6  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

"I'll  try,"  he  said. 

He  practised  copying  for  a  couple  of  days,  and 
then  copied  out  the  four  parts.  It  was  a  long, 
tedious  piece  of  work,  and  he  nearly  gave  it  up, 
but  finally  completed  it.  His  copy  was  certainly 
inaccurate  in  places,  but  it  was  usable.  He  had 
no  rest  till  he  had  learned  to  know  all  the  varieties 
of  plants  included  in  the  Stockholm  Flora.  When 
he  had  done  so  he  dropped  the  subject.  A  botani- 
cal excursion  afforded  him  no  more  interest; 
roamings  through  the  country  showed  him  nothing 
new.  He  could  not  find  any  plant  which  he  did 
not  know.  He  also  knew  the  few  minerals  which 
were  to  be  found,  and  had  an  entomological  col- 
lection. He  could  distinguish  birds  by  their  notes, 
their  feathers,  and  their  eggs.  But  all  these  were 
only  outward  phenomena,  mere  names  for  things, 
which  soon  lost  their  interest.  He  wanted  to 
reach  what  lay  behind  them.  He  used  to  be 
blamed  for  his  destructiveness,  for  he  broke  toys, 
watches,  and  everything  that  fell  into  his  hands. 
Accidently  he  heard  in  the  Academy  of  Sciences  a 
lecture  on  Chemistry  and  Physics,  accompanied 
by  experiments.  The  unusual  instruments  and 
apparatus  fascinated  him.  The  Professor  was  a 
magician,  but  one  who  explained  how  the  miracles 


Contact  ^tH  tHe  Upper  Classes     117 

took  place.     This  was  a  novelty  for  him,  and  he 
wished  himself  to  penetrate  these  secrets. 

He  talked  with  his  father  about  his  new  hobby, 
and  the  latter,  who  had  himself  studied  electricity 
in  his  youth,  lent  him  books  from  his  bookcase — 
Fock's  Physics,  Girardin's  Chemistry,  Figuier's 
Discoveries  and  Inventions,  and  the  Chemical 
Technology  of  Nyblasus.  In  the  attic  was  also  a 
galvanic  battery  constructed  on  the  old  Daniellian 
copper  and  zinc  system.  This  he  got  hold  of  when 
he  was  twelve  years  old,  and  made  so  many  experi- 
ments with  sulphuric  acid  as  to  ruin  handkerchiefs, 
napkins,  and  clothes.  After  he  had  galvanised 
everything  which  seemed  a  suitable  object,  he  laid 
this  hobby  also  aside.  During  the  summer  he 
took  up  privately  the  study  of  chemistry  with 
enthusiasm.  But  he  did  not  wish  to  carry  out  the 
experiments  described  in  the  text-book ;  he  wished 
to  make  discoveries.  He  had  neither  money  nor 
any  chemical  apparatus,  but  that  did  not  hinder 
him.  He  had  a  temperament  which  must  carry 
out  its  projects  in  spite  of  every  difficulty,  and  on 
the  spot.  This  was  still  more  the  case,  since  he 
had  become  his  own  master,  after  his  mother's 
death.  When  he  played  chess,  he  directed  his 
plan  of  campaign  against  his  opponent's  king. 


Ii8  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

He  went  on  recklessly,  without  thinking  of  de- 
fending himself,  sometimes  gained  the  victory  by 
sheer  recklessness,  but  frequently  also  lost  the 
game. 

"If  I  had  had  one  move  more,  you  would  have 
been  checkmated, "  he  said  on  such  occasions. 

"Yes,  but  you  hadn't,  and  therefore  you  are 
checkmated,"  was  the  answer. 

When  he  wished  to  open  a  locked  drawer,  and 
the  key  was  not  at  hand,  he  took  the  tongs  and 
broke  the  lock,  so  that,  together  with  its  screws,  it 
came  loose  from  the  wood. 

"Why  did  you  break  the  lock?"  they  asked. 

"Because  I  wished  to  get  at  the  drawer." 

This  impetuosity  revealed  a  certain  pertinacity, 
but  the  latter  only  lasted  while  the  fit  was  on  him. 
For  example :  On  one  occasion  he  wished  to  make 
an  electric  machine.  In  the  attic  he  found  a  spin- 
ning-wheel. From  it  he  broke  off  whatever  he 
did  not  need,  and  wanted  to  replace  the  wheel  with 
a  round  pane  of  glass.  He  found  a  double  window, 
and  with  a  splinter  of  quartz  cut  a  pane  out.  But 
it  had  to  be  round  and  have  a  whole  in  the  middle. 
With  a  key  he  knocked  off  one  splinter  of  glass 
after  another,  each  not  larger  than  a  grain  of  sand, 
this  took  him  several  days,  but  at  last  he  had  made 


Contact  ^witH  tKe  Upper  Classes     119 

the  pane  round.     But  how  was  he  to  make  a  hole 
in  it?     He  contrived  a  bow- drill.     In  order  to 
get  the  bow,  he  broke  an  umbrella,  took  a  piece  of 
whale-bone  out,  and  with  that  and  a  violin-string 
made  his  bow.     Then  he  rubbed  the  glass  with  the 
splinter  of  quartz,  wetted  it  with  turpentine,  and 
bored.     But   he   saw   no   result.     Then   he   lost 
patience  and  reflection,  and  tried  to  finish  the  job 
with  a  piece  of  cracking-coal.     The  pane  of  glass 
split  in  two.     Then  he  threw  himself,  weak,  ex- 
hausted, hopeless,  on  the  bed.     His  vexation  was 
intensified  by  a  consciousness  of  poverty.     If  he 
had  only  had  money.     He  walked  up  and  down 
before  Spolander's  shop  in  the  Vesterlanggata  and 
looked  at  the  various  sets  of  chemical  apparatus 
there  displayed.     He  would  have  gladly   ascer- 
tained their  price,  but  dared  not  go  in.     What 
would  have  been  the  good?     His  father  gave  him 
no  money. 

When  he  had  recovered  from  this  failure,  he 
wanted  to  make  what  no  one  has  made  hitherto, 
and  no  one  can  make — a  machine  to  exhibit  "per- 
petual motion. "  His  father  had  told  him  that  for 
a  long  time  past  a  reward  had  been  offered  to  any- 
one who  should  invent  this  impossibility.  This 
tempted  him.     He  constructed  a  waterfall  with  a 


I20  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

"  Hero's  fountain, "' which  worked  a  pump;  the 
waterfall  was  to  set  the  pump  in  motion,  and  the 
pump  was  to  draw  up  the  water  again  out  of 
the  "Hero's  fountain."  He  had  again  to  make  a 
raid  on  the  attic.  After  he  had  broken  everything 
possible  in  order  to  collect  material,  he  began  his 
work.  A  coffee-making  machine  had  to  serve  as 
a  pipe;  a  soda-water  machine  as  a  reservoir;  a 
chest  of  drawers  furnished  planks  and  wood;  a 
bird-cage,  iron  wire ;  and  so  on.  The  day  of  testing 
it  came.  Then  the  housekeeper  asked  him  if  he 
would  go  with  his  brothers  and  sisters  to  their 
mother's  grave.  "  No,  "  he  said,  '*  he  had  no  time." 
Whether  his  conscience  now  smote  him,  and  spoiled 
his  work,  or  whether  he  was  nervous — anyhow,  it 
was  a  failure.  Then  he  took  the  whole  apparatus, 
without  trying  to  put  right  what  was  wrong  in  it, 
and  hurled  it  against  the  tiled  stove.  There  lay 
the  work,  on  which  so  many  useful  things  had  been 
wasted,  and  a  good  while  later  on  the  ruin  was 
discovered  in  the  attic.  He  received  a  reproof, 
but  that  had  no  longer  an  effect  on  him. 

In  order  to  have  his  revenge  at  home,  where  he 
was  despised  on  account  of  his  imfortunate  experi- 
ments, he  made  some  explosions  with  detonating 

*  An  artifical  fountain  of  water,  worked  by  pressure  of  air. 


Contact  -witK  tKe  Upper  Classes     121 

gas,  and  contrived  a  Leyden  jar.  For  this  he  took 
the  skin  of  a  dead  black  cat  which  he  had  found  on 
the  Observatory  Hill  and  brought  home  in  his 
pocket-handkerchief.  One  night,  when  his  eldest 
brother  and  he  came  home  from  a  concert,  they 
could  find  no  matches,  and  did  not  wish  to  wake 
anyone.  John  hunted  up  some  sulphuric  acid  and 
zinc,  produced  hydrogen,  procured  a  flame  by 
means  of  the  electricity  conductor,  and  lighted  the 
lamp.  This  established  his  reputation  as  a  scien- 
tific chemist.  He  also  manufactured  matches  like 
those  made  at  Jonkoping.  Then  he  laid  chemistry 
aside  for  a  time. 

His  father's  bookshelves  contained  a  small  col- 
lection of  books  which  were  now  at  his  disposal. 
Here,  besides  the  above-mentioned  works  on 
chemistry-  and  physics,  he  found  books  on  garden- 
ing, an  illustrated  natural  history,  Meyer's  Uni- 
versum,  a  German  anatomical  treatise  with  plates, 
an  illustrated  German  history  of  Napoleon, 
Wallin's,  Franzen's,  and  Tegner's  poems,  Don 
Quixote,  Frederika  Bremer's  romances,  etc. 

Besides  books  about  Indians  and  the  Thousand 
and  One  Nights,  John  had  hitherto  no  acquain- 
tance with  pure  literature.  He  had  looked  into 
some  romances  and  found  them  tedious,  especially 


122  The  Son  of  a  Servant 

as  they  had  no  illustrations.  But  after  he  had 
floundered  about  chemistry  and  natural  science, 
he  one  day  paid  a  visit  to  the  bookcase.  He 
looked  into  the  poets;  here  he  felt  as  though  he 
were  floating  in  the  air  and  did  not  know  where 
he  was.  He  did  not  understand  it.  Then  he  took 
Frederika  Bremer's  Pictures  from  Daily  Life. 
Here  he  found  domesticity  and  didacticism,  and 
put  them  back.  Then  he  seized  hold  of  a  collec- 
tion of  tales  and  fairy  stories  called  Der  Jungjrau- 
enturm.  These  dealt  with  unhappy  love,  and 
moved  him.  But  most  important  of  all  was  the 
circumstance  that  he  felt  himself  an  adult  with 
these  adult  characters.  He  understood  what  they 
said,  and  observed  that  he  was  no  longer  a  child. 
He,  too,  had  been  unhappy  in  love,  had  suffered 
and  fought,  but  he  was  kept  back  in  the  prison  of 
childhood.  And  now  he  first  became  aware  that 
his  soul  was  in  prison.  It  had  long  been  fledged, 
but  they  had  clipped  its  wings  and  put  it  in  a  cage. 
Now  he  sought  his  father  and  wished  to  talk  with 
him  as  a  comrade,  but  his  father  was  reserved  and 
brooded  over  his  sorrow. 

In  the  autumn  there  came  a  new  throw-back  and 
check  for  him.  He  was  ripe  for  the  highest  class, 
but  was  kept  back  in  the  school  because  he  was 


Contact  -witK  tKe  Upper  Classes     123 

too  young.  He  was  infuriated.  For  the  second 
time  he  was  held  fast  by  the  coat  when  he  wished 
to  jump.  He  felt  like  an  omnibus-horse  con- 
tinually pressing  forward  and  being  as  constantly 
held  back.  This  lacerated  his  nerves,  weakened 
his  will-power,  and  laid  the  foundation  for  lack  of 
courage  in  the  future.  He  never  dared  to  wish 
anything  very  keenly,  for  he  had  seen  how  often 
his  wishes  were  checked.  He  wanted  to  be  indus- 
trious and  press  on,  but  industry  did  not  help 
him;  he  was  too  young.  No,  the  school  course 
was  too  long.  It  showed  the  goal  in  the  distance, 
but  set  obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  runners.  He 
had  reckoned  on  being  a  student  when  he  was 
fifteen,  but  had  to  w^ait  till  he  was  eighteen.  In 
his  last  year,  when  he  saw  escape  from  his  prison 
so  near,  another  year  of  punishment  was  imposed 
upon  him  by  a  rule  being  passed  that  they  were  to 
remain  in  the  highest  class  for  two  years. 

His  childhood  and  youth  had  been  extremely 
painful ;  the  whole  of  life  was  spoiled  for  him,  and 
he  sought  comfort  in  heaven. 


VI 

THE  SCHOOL  OF  THE  CROSS 

Sorrow  has  the  fortunate  peculiarity  that  it  preys 
upon  itself.  It  dies  of  starvation.  Since  it  is 
essentially  an  interruption  of  habits,  it  can  be 
replaced  by  new  habits.  Constituting,  as  it  does, 
a  void,  it  is  soon  filled  up  by  a  real  "horror 
vacui. " 

A  twenty-years'  marriage  had  come  to  an  end. 
A  comrade  in  the  battle  against  the  difficulties  of 
life  was  lost ;  a  wife,  at  whose  side  her  husband  had 
lived,  had  gone  and  left  behind  an  old  celibate; 
the  manager  of  the  house  had  quitted  her  post. 
Everything  was  in  confusion.  The  small,  black- 
dressed  creatures,  who  moved  everywhere  Hke 
dark  blots  in  the  rooms  and  in  the  garden,  kept 
the  feeling  of  loss  fresh.  Their  father  thought  they 
felt  forlorn  and  believed  them  defenceless.  He 
often  came  home  from  his  work  in  the  afternoon 

and  sat  alone  in  a  lime-tree  arbour,  which  looked 

124 


THe  School  of  tKe  Cross  125 

towards  the  street.  He  had  his  eldest  daughter, 
a  child  of  seven,  on  his  knee,  and  the  others  played 
at  his  feet.  John  often  watched  the  grey-haired 
man,  with  his  melancholy,  handsome  features, 
sitting  in  the  green  twilight  of  the  arbour.  He 
coiild  not  comfort  him,  and  did  not  seek  his  com- 
pany any  more.  He  saw  the  softening  of  the  old 
man's  nature,  which  he  would  not  have  thought 
possible  before.  He  watched  how  his  fixed  gaze 
lingered  on  his  little  daughter  as  though  in  the 
childish  lines  of  her  face  he  would  reconstruct  in 
imagination  the  features  of  the  dead.  From  his 
window  John  often  watched  this  pictiire  between 
the  stems  of  the  trees  down  the  long  vista  of  the 
avenue;  it  touched  him  deeply,  but  he  began  to 
fear  for  his  father,  who  no  longer  seemed  to  be 
himself. 

Six  months  had  passed,  when  his  father  one 
autumn  evening  came  home  with  a  stranger.  He 
was  an  elderly  man  of  unusually  cheerful  aspect. 
He  joked  good-naturedly,  was  friendly  and  kindly 
towards  children  and  servants,  and  had  an  irre- 
sistible way  of  making  people  laugh.  He  was  an 
accountant,  had  been  a  school  friend  of  John's 
father,  and  was  now  discovered  to  be  living  in  a 
house  close  by.     The  two  old  men  talked  of  their 


126  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

youthful  recollections,  which  afforded  material  to 
fill  the  painful  void  John's  father  felt.  His  stern, 
set  features  relaxed,  as  he  was  obliged  to  laugh  at 
his  friend's  witty  and  humorous  remarks.  After  a 
week  he  and  the  whole  family  were  laughing  as  only 
those  can  who  have  wept  for  a  long  time.  Their 
friend  was  a  wit  of  the  first  water,  and  more,  could 
play  the  violin  and  guitar,  and  sing  Bellman's* 
songs.  A  new  atmosphere  seemed  to  pervade  the 
house,  new  views  of  things  sprang  up,  and  the 
melancholy  phantoms  of  the  mourning  period 
were  dissipated.  The  accountant  had  also  known 
trouble;  he  had  lost  his  betrothed,  and  since  then 
remained  a  bachelor.  Life  had  not  been  child's 
play  for  him,  but  he  had  taken  things  as  they 
came. 

Soon  after  John's  brother  Gustav  returned  from 
Paris  in  uniform,  mixing  French  words  with 
Swedish  in  his  talk,  brisk  and  cheerful.  His 
father  received  him  with  a  kiss  on  the  forehead, 
and  was  somewhat  depressed  again  by  the  recol- 
lection that  this  son  had  not  been  at  his  mother's 
death-bed.  But  he  soon  cheered  up  again  and  the 
house  grew  lively.  Gustav  entered  his  father's 
business,  and  the  latter  had  someone  now  with 

'  Famous  Swedish  poet. 


TKe  ScKool  of  tKe  Cross  127 

whom  he  could  talk  on  matters  which  interested 
him. 

One  evening,  late  in  autumn,  after  supper,  when 
the  accountant  was  present  and  the  company  sat 
together,  John's  father  stood  up  and  signified  his 
wish  to  say  a  few  words:  "My  boys  and  my 
friend,"  he  began,  and  then  announced  his  in- 
tention of  giving  his  little  children  a  new  mother, 
adding  that  the  time  of  youthful  passion  was  past 
for  him,  and  that  only  thoughts  for  the  children 
had  led  to  the  resolve  to  make  Fraulein — his  wife. 

She  was  the  housekeeper.  He  made  the  an- 
nouncement in  a  somewhat  authoritative  tone, 
as  though  he  would  say,  "You  have  really  nothing 
to  do  with  it ;  however,  I  let  you  know. ' '  Then  the 
housekeeper  was  fetched  to  receive  their  con- 
gratulations, which  were  hearty  on  the  part  of  the 
accountant,  but  of  a  somewhat  mixed  nature  on 
the  part  of  the  three  boys.  Two  of  them  had 
rather  an  uncomfortable  conscience  on  the  matter, 
for  they  had  strongly  but  innocently  admired  her; 
but  the  third,  John,  had  latterly  been  on  bad 
terms  with  her.  Which  of  them  was  most  em- 
barrassed would  be  difBcult  to  decide. 

There  ensued  a  long  pause,  during  which  the 
youths    examined    themselves,    mentally    settled 


128  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

their  accounts,  and  thought  of  the  possible  conse- 
quences of  this  unexpected  event.  John  must 
have  been  the  first  to  reaHse  what  the  situation 
demanded,  for  he  went  the  same  evening  into  the 
nursery  straight  to  the  housekeeper.  It  seemed 
dark  before  his  eyes  as  he  repeated  the  following 
speech,  which  he  had  hastily  composed  and  learned 
by  heart  in  his  father's  fashion: 

"Since  our  relations  with  each  other  will  hence- 
forward be  on  a  different  footing, "  he  said,  "allow 
me  to  ask  you  to  forget  the  past  and  to  be  friends. " 

This  was  a  prudent  utterance,  sincerely  meant, 
and  had  no  arriere  pensee  behind  it.  It  was  also 
a  balancing  of  accounts  with  his  father,  and  the 
expression  of  a  wish  to  live  harmoniously  together 
for  the  future.  At  noon  the  next  day  John's 
father  came  up  to  his  room,  thanked  him  for  his 
kindness  towards  the  housekeeper,  and,  as  a  token 
of  his  pleasure  at  it,  gave  him  a  small  present,  but 
one  which  he  had  long  desired.  It  was  a  chemical 
apparatus.  John  felt  ashamed  to  take  the  present, 
and  made  little  of  his  kindness.  It  was  a  natural 
result  of  his  father's  announcement,  and  a  prudent 
thing  to  do,  but  his  father  and  the  housekeeper 
must  have  seen  in  it  a  good  augury  for  their 
wedded  happiness.     They  soon  discovered  their 


THe  ScKool  of  tHe  Cross  129 

mistake,  which  was  naturally  laid  at  the  boy's 
door. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  old  man  married 
again  for  his  children's  sake,  but  it  is  also  certain 
that  he  loved  the  young  woman.  And  why  should 
he  not?  It  is  nobody's  affair  except  that  of  the 
persons  concerned,  but  it  is  a  fact  of  constant  oc- 
currence, both  that  widowers  marry  again,  however 
galling  the  bonds  of  matrimony  may  have  been, 
and  that  they  also  feel  they  are  committing  a 
breach  of  trust  against  the  dead.  Dying  wives 
are  generally  tormented  with  the  thought  that  the 
survivor  will  marry  again. 

The  two  elder  brothers  took  the  affair  lightly, 
and  accommodated  themselves  to  it.  They  re- 
garded their  father  with  veneration,  and  never 
doubted  the  rightness  of  what  he  did.  They  had 
never  considered  that  fatherhood  is  an  accident 
which  may  happen  to  anyone. 

But  John  doubted.  He  fell  into  endless  dis- 
putes with  his  brothers,  and  criticised  his  father  for 
becoming  engaged  before  the  expiration  of  the 
year  of  mourning.  He  conjured  up  his  mother's 
shade,  prophesied  misery  and  ruin,  and  let  him- 
self go  to  unreasonable  lengths. 

The  brothers'  argument  was:     "We  have  no- 


130  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

thing  to  do  with  father's  acts."  "It  was  true," 
retorted  John,  "that  it  was  not  their  business  to 
judge;  still,  it  concerned  them  deeply."  "Word- 
catcher!"  they  replied,  not  seeing  the  distinction. 

One  evening,  when  John  had  come  home  from 
school,  he  saw  the  house  lit  up  and  heard  music 
and  talking.  He  went  to  his  room  in  order  to 
study.  The  servant  came  up  and  said  that  his 
father  wished  him  to  come  down  as  there  were 
guests  present. 

"Who?"  asked  John. 

"The  new  relations." 

John  replied  that  he  had  no  time.  Then  one  of 
his  brothers  appeared.  He  first  abused  John,  then 
he  begged  him  to  come,  saying  that  he  ought  to 
for  his  father's  sake,  even  if  it  were  only  for  a 
moment ;  he  could  soon  go  up  again. 

John  said  he  would  consider  the  matter. 

At  last  he  went  down;  he  saw  the  room  full  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen:  three  aunts,  a  new  grand- 
mother, an  uncle,  a  grandfather.  The  aunts  were 
young  girls.  He  made  a  bow  in  the  centre  of  the 
room  politely  but  stiffly. 

His  father  was  vexed,  but  did  not  wish  to  show 
it.  He  asked  John  whether  he  would  have  a  glass 
of  punch.     John  took  it.     Then  the  old  man  asked 


THe  ScHool  of  tHe  Cross  131 

ironically  whether  he  had  really  so  much  work  for 
the  school.  John  said  "  Yes, "  and  returned  to  his 
room.  Here  it  was  cold  and  dark,  and  he  could 
not  work  when  the  noise  of  music  and  dancing 
ascended  to  him.  Then  the  cook  came  up  to 
fetch  him  to  supper.  He  would  not  have  any. 
Hungry  and  angry  he  paced  up  and  down  the 
room.  At  intervals  he  wanted  to  go  down  where 
it  was  warm,  light,  and  cheerful,  and  several  times 
took  hold  of  the  door-handle.  But  he  turned 
back  again,  for  he  was  shy.  Timid  as  he  was  by 
nature,  this  last  solitary  summer  had  made  him 
still  more  uncivilised.  So  he  went  hungry  to  bed, 
and  considered  himself  the  most  unfortunate 
creature  in  the  world. 

The  next  day  his  father  came  to  his  room  and 
told  him  he  had  not  been  honest  when  he  had 
asked  the  housekeeper's  pardon. 

"Pardon!"  exclaimed  John,  "he  had  nothing 
to  ask  pardon  for."  But  now  his  father  wanted 
to  humble  him.  "  Let  him  try, "  thought  John  to 
himself.  For  a  time  no  obvious  attempts  were 
made  in  that  direction,  but  John  stiffened  himself 
to  meet  them,  when  they  should  come. 

One  evening  his  brother  was  reading  by  the 
lamp  in  the  room  upstairs.     John  asked,  "What 


132  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

are  you  reading?"  His  brother  showed  him  the 
title  on  the  cover;  there  stood  in  old  black-letter 
type  on  a  yellow  cover  the  famous  title :  Warning 
of  a  Friend  of  Youth  against  the  most  Dangerous 
Enemy  of  Youth. 

"Have  you  read  it?"  asked  Gustav. 

John  answered  "Yes,"  and  drew  back.  After 
Gustav  had  done  reading,  he  put  the  book  in  his 
drawer  and  went  downstairs.  John  opened  the 
drawer  and  took  out  the  mysterious  work.  His 
eyes  glanced  over  the  pages  without  venturing  to 
fix  on  any  particular  spot.  His  knees  trembled,  his 
face  became  bloodless,  his  pulses  froze.  He  was, 
then,  condemned  to  death  or  lunacy  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five!  His  spinal  marrow  and  his  brain 
would  disappear,  his  hair  would  fall  out,  his 
hands  would  tremble — it  was  horrible!  And  the 
cure  was — Christ !  But  Christ  could  not  heal  the 
body,  only  the  soul.  The  body  was  condemned 
to  death  at  five-and-twenty ;  the  only  thing  left 
was  to  save  the  soul  from  everlasting  damnation. 

This  was  Dr.  Kapff's  famous  pamphlet,  which 
has  driven  so  many  youths  into  a  lunatic  asylum 
in  order  to  increase  the  adherents  of  the  Protestant 
Jesuits.  Such  a  dangerous  work  should  have  been 
prosecuted,  confiscated,  and  burnt,  or,  at  any  rate, 


TKe  ScKool  of  tKe  Cross  133 

counteracted  by  more  intelligent  ones.  One  of 
the  latter  sort  fell  into  John's  hands  later,  and  he 
did  his  best  to  circulate  it,  as  it  was  excellent.  The 
title  was  Uncle  Palle's  Advice  to  Young  Sinners, 
and  its  authorship  was  attributed  to  the  medical 
councillor,  Dr.  Westrand.  It  was  a  cheerfully 
written  book,  which  took  the  matter  lightly,  and 
declared  that  the  dangers  of  the  evil  habit  had 
been  exaggerated;  it  also  gave  practical  advice 
and  hygienic  directions.  But  even  to  the  present 
time  Kapff's  absurd  pamphlet  is  in  vogue,  and 
doctors  are  frequently  visited  by  sinners,  who 
with  beating  hearts  make  their  confessions. ' 

For  half  a  year  John  could  find  no  word  of  com- 
fort in  his  great  trouble.  He  was,  he  thought, 
condemned  to  death;  the  only  thing  left  was  to 
lead  a  virtuous  and  religious  life,  till  the  fatal  hour 
should  strike.  He  hunted  up  his  mother's  pietistic 
books  and  read  them.  He  considered  himself 
merely  as  a  criminal  and  humbled  himself.  When 
on  the  next  day  he  passed  through  the  street,  he 
stepped  off  the  pavement  in  order  to  make  room 

'In  a  later  -viOTk,  Legends  (1898),  Strindberg  says:  "When 
I  wrote  that  youthful  confession  {The  Son  of  a  Servant)  the 
liberal  tendency  of  that  period  seems  to  have  induced  me  to  use 
too  bright  colours,  with  the  pardonable  object  of  freeing  from 
fear  young  men  who  have  fallen  into  precocious  sin." 


134  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

for  everyone  he  met.  He  wished  to  mortify  him- 
self, to  suffer  for  the  allotted  period,  and  then  to 
enter  into  the  joy  of  his  Lord. 

One  night  he  awoke  and  saw  his  brothers  sitting 
by  the  lamplight.     They  were  discussing  the  sub- 
ject.     He  crept  under  the  counterpane  and  put 
his  fingers  in  his  ears  in  order  not  to  hear.     But  he 
heard  all  the  same.     He  wished  to  spring  up  to 
confess,  to  beg  for  mercy  and  help,  but  dared  not, 
to  hear  the  confirmation  of  his  death  sentence. 
Had  he  spoken,  perhaps  he  would  have  obtained 
help  and  comfort,  but  he  kept  silence.     He  lay 
still,  with  perspiration  breaking  out,  and  prayed. 
Wherever  he  went  he  saw  the  terrible  word  written 
in  old  black  letters  on  a  yellow  ground ,  on  the  walls 
of  the  houses,  on  the  carpets  of  the  room.     The 
chest  of  drawers  in  which  the  book  lay  contained 
the  guillotine.    Every  time  his  brother  approached 
the  drawer  he  trembled  and  ran  away.     For  hours 
at  a  time  he  stood   before  the  looking-glass  in 
order  to  see  if  his  eyes  had  sunk  in,  his  hair  had 
fallen  out,  and  his  skull  was  projecting.     But  he 
looked  ruddy  and  healthy. 

He  shut  himself  up  in  himself,  was  quiet  and 
avoided  all  society.  His  father  imagined  that  by 
this  behaviour  he  wished  to  express  his  disapproval 


TKe  ScHool  of  tKe  Cross  135 

of  the  marriage ;  that  he  was  proud,  and  wanted  to 
humble  him.  But  he  was  humbled  already,  and 
as  he  silently  yielded  to  the  pressure  his  father 
congratulated  himself  on  the  success  of  his 
strategy. 

This  irritated  the  boy,  and  sometimes  he  re- 
volted. Now  and  then  there  arose  a  faint  hope 
in  him  that  his  body  might  be  saved.  He  went  to 
the  gymnasium,  took  cold  baths,  and  ate  little  in 
the  evening. 

Through  home-life,  intercourse  with  school- 
fellows, and  learning,  he  had  developed  a  fairly 
complicated  ego,  and  when  he  compared  himself 
with  the  simpler  egos  of  others,  he  felt  superior. 
But  now  religion  came  and  wanted  to  kill  this  ego. 
That  was  not  so  easy  and  the  battle  was  fierce. 
He  saw  also  that  no  one  else  denied  himself.  Why, 
then,  in  heaven's  name,  should  he  do  so? 

When  his  father's  wedding-day  came,  he  re- 
volted. He  did  not  go  to  kiss  the  bride  like  his 
brothers  and  sisters,  but  withdrew  from  the 
dancing  to  the  toddy-drinkers,  and  got  a  little 
intoxicated.  But  a  punishment  was  soon  to 
follow  on  this,  and  his  ego  was  to  be  broken. 

He  became  a  collegian,  but  this  gave  him  no 
joy.     It  came  too  late,  like  a  debt  that  had  been 


136  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

long  due.  He  had  had  the  pleasure  of  it  before- 
hand. No  one  congratulated  him,  and  he  got  no 
collegian's  cap.  Why?  Did  they  want  to  humble 
him  or  did  his  father  not  wish  to  see  an  outward 
sign  of  his  learning?  At  last  it  was  suggested  that 
one  of  his  aunts  should  embroider  the  college 
wreath  on  velvet,  which  could  then  be  sewn  on  to 
an  ordinary  black  cap.  She  embroidered  an  oak 
and  laurel  branch,  but  so  badly  that  his  fellow- 
students  laughed  at  him.  He  was  the  only  colle- 
gian for  a  long  time  who  had  not  worn  the 
proper  cap.  The  only  one — pointed  at,  and  passed 
over! 

Then  his  breakfast-money,  which  hitherto  had 
been  five  ore,  was  reduced  to  four.  This  was  an 
unnecessary  cruelty,  for  they  were  not  poor  at 
home,  and  a  boy  ought  to  have  more  food.  The 
consequence  was  that  John  had  no  breakfast  at 
all,  for  he  spent  his  weekly  money  in  tobacco.  He 
had  a  keen  appetite  and  was  always  hungry. 
When  there  was  salt  cod-fish  for  dinner,  he  ate 
till  his  jaws  were  weary,  but  left  the  table  hungry. 
Did  he  then  really  get  too  little  to  eat?  No;  there 
are  millions  of  working-men  who  have  much  less, 
but  the  stomachs  of  the  upper  classes  must  have 
become  accustomed  to  stronger  and   more  con- 


THe  ScHool  of  tKe  Cross  137 

centrated  nourishment.  His  whole  youth  seemed 
to  him  in  recollection  a  long  fasting  period. 

Moreover,  under  the  stepmother's  rule  the  scale 
of  diet  was  reduced,  the  food  was  inferior,  and  he 
could  change  his  linen  only  once  instead  of  twice  a 
week.  This  was  a  sign  that  one  of  the  lower 
classes  was  guiding  the  household.  The  youth 
was  not  proud  in  the  sense  that  he  despised  the 
housekeeper's  low  birth,  but  the  fact  that  she  who 
had  formerly  been  beneath  him  tried  to  oppress 
him,  made  him  revolt — but  now  Christianity  came 
in  and  bade  him  turn  the  other  cheek. 

He  kept  growing,  and  had  to  go  about  in  clothes 
which  he  had  outgrown.  His  comrades  jeered  at 
his  short  trousers.  His  school-books  were  old 
editions  out  of  date,  and  this  caused  him  much 
annoyance  in  the  school. 

"So  it  is  in  my  book,"  he  would  say  to  the 
teacher. 

"Show  me  your  book." 

Then  the  teacher  was  scandalised,  and  told  him 
to  get  the  newest  edition,  which  he  never  did. 

His  shirt-sleeves  reached  only  half-way  down  his 
arm  and  could  not  be  buttoned.  In  the  gym- 
nasium, therefore,  he  always  kept  his  jacket  on. 
One  day  in  his  capacity  as  leader  of  the  troop  he 


138  THe  Son  of  o   Servant 

was  having  a  special  lesson  from  the  teacher  of 
gymnastics. 

"Take  off  your  jackets,  boys,  we  want  to  put 
our  backs  into  it, "  said  the  instructor. 

All  besides  John  did  so. 

"Well,  are  you  ready?" 

"No,  I  am  freezing,"  answered  John. 

"You  will  soon  be  warm,"  said  the  instructor; 
"off  with  your  jacket." 

He  refused.  The  instructor  came  up  to  him  in 
a  friendly  way  and  pulled  at  his  sleeves.  He 
resisted.  The  instructor  looked  at  him.  "What 
is  this?"  he  said.  "I  ask  you  kindly  and  you 
won't  oblige  me.     Then  go!" 

John  wished  to  say  something  in  his  defence; 
he  looked  at  the  friendly  man,  with  whom  he  had 
always  been  on  good  terms,  with  troubled  eyes — 
but  he  kept  silence  and  went.  What  depressed 
him  was  poverty  imposed  as  a  cruelty,  not  as  a 
necessity.  He  complained  to  his  brothers,  but  they 
said  he  should  not  be  proud.  Difference  of  edu- 
cation had  opened  a  gulf  between  him  and  them. 
They  belonged  to  a  different  class  of  society,  and 
ranged  themselves  with  the  father  who  was  of 
their  class  and  the  one  in  power. 

Another  time  he  was  given  a  jacket  which  had 


XHe  ScKool  of  tHe  Cross  139 

been  altered  from  a  blue  frock-coat  with  bright 
buttons.  His  school-fellows  laughed  at  him  as 
though  he  were  pretending  to  be  a  cadet,  but  this 
was  the  last  idea  in  his  mind,  for  he  always  plumed 
himself  on  being  rather  than  seeming.  This 
jacket  cost  him  untold  suffering. 

After  this  a  systematic  plan  of  himibling  him 
was  pursued.  John  was  waked  up  eariy  in  the 
mornings  to  do  domestic  tasks  before  he  went  to 
school.  He  pleaded  his  school- work  as  an  excuse, 
but  it  did  not  help  him  at  all.  "You  learn  so 
easily, "  he  was  told.  This  was  quite  unnecessary, 
as  there  was  a  man-servant,  besides  several  other 
servants,  in  the  house.  He  saw  that  it  was  merely 
meant  as  a  chastisement.  He  hated  his  oppressors 
and  they  hated  him. 

Then  there  began  a  second  course  of  discipline. 
He  had  to  get  up  in  the  morning  and  drive  his 
father  to  the  town  before  he  went  to  school,  then 
return  with  the  horse  and  trap,  take  out  the  horse, 
feed  it,  and  sweep  the  stable.  The  same  man- 
oeuvre was  repeated  at  noon.  So,  besides  his 
school-work,  he  had  domestic  work  and  must 
drive  twice  daily  to  and  from  Riddarholm.  In 
later  years  he  asked  himself  whether  this  had 
been   done  with  forethought;  whether  his  wise 


140  XKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

father  saw  that  too  much  activity  of  brain  was 
bad  for  him,  and  that  physical  work  was  neces- 
sary. Or  perhaps  it  was  an  economical  regulation 
in  order  to  save  some  of  the  man-servant's  work 
time.  Physical  exertion  is  certainly  useful  for 
boys,  and  should  be  commended  to  the  considera- 
tion of  all  parents,  but  John  could  not  perceive 
any  beneficent  intention  in  the  matter,  even 
though  it  may  have  existed.  The  whole  affair 
seemed  so  dictated  by  malice  and  an  intention  to 
cause  pain,  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  dis- 
cover any  good  purpose  in  it,  though  it  may  have 
existed  along  with  the  bad  one. 

In  the  summer  holidays  the  driving  out  degener- 
ated into  stable-work.  The  horse  had  to  be  fed 
at  stated  hours,  and  John  was  obliged  to  stay  at 
home  in  order  not  to  miss  them.  His  freedom 
was  at  an  end.  He  felt  the  great  change  which 
had  taken  place  in  his  circumstances,  and  attri- 
buted them  to  his  stepmother.  Instead  of  being 
a  free  person  who  could  dispose  of  his  own  time 
and  thoughts,  he  had  become  a  slave,  to  do  service 
in  return  for  his  food.  When  he  saw  that  his 
brothers  were  spared  all  such  work,  he  became 
convinced  that  it  was  imposed  on  him  out  of 
malice.     Straw-cutting,     room-sweeping,     water- 


XKe  School  of  tHe  Cross  141 

carrying,  etc.,  are  excellent  exercises,  but  the 
motive  spoiled  everything.  If  his  father  had  told 
him  it  was  good  for  his  health,  he  would  have  done 
it  gladly,  but  now  he  hated  it.  He  feared  the 
dark,  for  he  had  been  brought  up  like  all  children 
by  the  maid-servants,  and  he  had  to  do  violence 
to  himself  when  he  went  up  to  the  hay-loft  every 
evening.  He  cursed  it  every  time,  but  the  horse 
was  a  good-natured  beast  with  whom  he  some- 
times talked.  He  was,  moreover,  fond  of  animals, 
and  possessed  canaries  of  which  he  took  great 
care. 

He  hated  his  domestic  tasks  because  they  were 
imposed  upon  him  by  the  former  housekeeper, 
who  wished  to  revenge  herself  on  him  and  to  show 
him  her  superiority.  He  hated  her,  for  the  tasks 
were  exacted  from  him  as  payment  for  his  studies. 
He  had  seen  through  the  reason  why  he  was  be- 
ing prepared  for  a  learned  career.  They  boasted 
of  him  and  his  learning ;  he  was  not  then  being  edu- 
cated out  of  kindness. 

Then  he  became  obstinate,  and  on  one  occasion 
damaged  the  springs  of  the  trap  in  driving.  When 
they  ahghted  at  Riddarhustorg,  his  father  ex- 
amined it.     He  observed  that  a  spring  was  broken. 

"Go  to  the  smith's,"  he  said. 


142  XKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

John  was  silent. 

"Did  you  hear?" 

"  Yes,  I  heard. " 

He  had  to  go  to  the  Malargata,  where  the 
smith  Hved.  The  latter  said  it  would  take  three 
hours  to  repair  the  damage.  What  was  to  be 
done?  He  must  take  the  horse  out,  lead  it  home 
and  return.  But  to  lead  a  horse  in  harness, 
while  wearing  his  collegian's  cap,  through  the 
Drottningsgata,  perhaps  to  meet  the  boys  by  the 
observatory  who  envied  him  for  his  cap,  or  still 
worse,  the  pretty  girls  on  the  Norrtullsgata 
who  smiled  at  him — No!  he  would  do  anything 
rather  than  that.  He  then  thought  of  leading  the 
horse  through  the  Rorstrandsgata,  but  then  he 
would  have  to  pass  Karlberg,  and  here  he  knew 
the  cadets.  He  remained  in  the  courtyard,  sitting 
on  a  log  in  the  sunshine  and  cursed  his  lot.  He 
thought  of  the  summer  holidays  which  he  had 
spent  in  the  country,  of  his  friends  who  were  now 
there,  and  measured  his  misfortune  by  that  stand- 
ard. But  had  he  thought  of  his  brothers  who  were 
now  shut  up  for  ten  hours  a  day  in  the  hot  and 
gloomy  office  without  hope  of  a  single  holiday, 
his  meditations  on  his  lot  would  have  taken  a 
different  turn;  but  he  did  not  do  that.     Just  now 


TKe  School  of  tKe  Cross  143 

he  would  have  wiUingly  changed  places  with  them. 
They,  at  any  rate,  earned  their  bread,  and  did  not 
have  to  stay  at  home.  They  had  a  definite 
position,  but  he  had  not.  Why  did  his  parents  let 
him  smell  at  the  apple  and  then  drag  him  away? 
He  longed  to  get  away — no  matter  where.  He 
was  in  a  false  position,  and  he  wished  to  get  out  of 
it,  to  be  either  above  or  below  and  not  to  be 
crushed  between  the  wheels. 

Accordingly,  one  day  he  asked  his  father  for 
permission  to  leave  the  school.  His  father  was 
astonished,  and  asked  in  a  friendly  way  his  reason. 
He  replied  that  everything  was  spoiled  for  him,  he 
was  learning  nothing,  and  wished  to  go  out  into 
life  in  order  to  work  and  earn  his  own  living. 

"What  do  you  want  to  be?"  asked  his  father. 

He  said  he  did  not  know,  and  then  he  wept. 

A  few  days  later  his  father  asked  him  whether 
he  would  like  to  be  a  cadet.  A  cadet!  His  eyes 
Hghted  up,  but  he  did  not  know  what  to  answer. 
To  be  a  fine  gentleman  with  a  sword !  His  boldest 
dreams  had  never  reached  so  far. 

"Think  over  it,"  said  his  father.  He  thought 
about  it  the  whole  evening.  If  he  accepted,  he 
would  now  go  in  uniform  to  Karlberg,  where  he 
had  once  bathed  and  been  driven  away  by  the 


144  The  Son  of  a  Servant 

cadets.  To  become  an  officer — that  meant  to  get 
power;  the  girls  would  smile  on  him  and  no  one 
would  oppress  him.  He  felt  life  grow  brighter, 
the  sense  of  oppression  vanished  from  his  breast 
and  hope  awoke.  But  it  was  too  much  for  him. 
It  neither  suited  him  nor  his  surroundings.  He 
did  not  wish  to  mount  and  to  command ;  he  wished 
only  to  escape  the  compulsion  to  blind  obedi- 
ence, the  being  watched  and  oppressed.  The 
stoicism  which  asks  nothing  of  life  awoke  in  him. 
He  declined  the  offer,  saying  it  was  too  much  for 
him. 

The  mere  thought  that  he  could  have  been 
what  perhaps  all  boys  long  to  be,  was  enough  for 
him.  He  renounced  it,  descended,  and  took  up 
his  chain  again.  When,  later  on,  he  became  an 
egotistic  pietist,  he  imagined  that  he  had  re- 
nounced the  honour  for  Christ's  sake.  That  was 
not  true,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  was  some 
asceticism  in  his  sacrifice.  He  had,  moreover, 
gained  clearer  insight  into  his  parents'  game ;  they 
wished  to  get  honour  through  him.  Probably 
the  cadet  idea  had  been  suggested  by  his  step- 
mother. 

But  there  arose  more  serious  occasions  of  con- 
tention.    John  thought  that  his  younger  brothers 


The  ScKool  of  tKe  Cross  145 

and  sisters  were  worse  dressed  than  before,  and  he 
had  heard  cries  from  the  nursery. 

"Ah!"  he  said  to  himself,  "she  beats  them." 

Now  he  kept  a  sharp  look-out.  One  day  he 
noticed  that  the  servant  teased  his  younger  brother 
as  he  lay  in  bed.  The  little  boy  was  angry 
and  spat  in  her  face.  His  step -mother  wanted  to 
interfere,  but  John  intervened.  He  had  now 
tasted  blood.  The  matter  was  postponed  till 
his  father's  return.  After  dinner  the  battle  was 
to  begin.  John  was  ready.  He  felt  that  he  re- 
presented his  dead  mother.  Then  it  began! 
After  a  formal  report,  his  father  took  hold  of 
Pelle,  and  was  about  to  beat  him.  "You  must 
not  beat  him!"  cried  John  in  a  threatening  tone, 
and  rushed  towards  his  father  as  though  he  would 
have  seized  him  by  the  collar. 

"What  in  heaven's  name  are  you  saying?" 

"You  should  not  touch  him.  He  is  inno- 
cent. " 

"Come  in  here  and  let  me  talk  to  you;  you  are 
certainly  mad, "  said  his  father. 

"Yes,  I  will  come,"  said  the  generally  timid 
John,  as  though  he  were  possessed. 

His  father  hesitated  somewhat  on  hearing  his 
confident  tone,  and  his  soimd  intelligence  must 


10 


146  THe  Son  of  a   Servant 

have  told  him  that  there  was  something  queer 
about  the  matter. 

"Well,  what  have  you  to  say  to  me?"  asked 
his  father,  more  quietly  but  still  distrustfully. 

"I  say  that  it  is  Karin's  fault;  she  did  wrong, 
and  if  mother  had  lived " 

That  struck  home.  "What  are  you  talking 
nonsense  about  your  mother  for?  You  have  now 
a  new  mother.  Prove  what  you  say.  What  has 
Karindone?" 

That  was  just  the  trouble;  he  could  not  say  it, 
for  he  feared  by  doing  so  to  touch  a  sore  point. 
He  was  silent.  A  thousand  thoughts  coursed 
through  his  mind.  How  should  he  express  them? 
He  struggled  for  utterance,  and  finally  came  out 
with  a  stupid  saying  which  he  had  read  somewhere 
in  a  school-book. 

"Prove!"  he  said.  "There  are  clear  matters 
of  fact  which  can  neither  be  proved  nor  need  to  be 
proved."  (How  stupid!  he  thought  to  himself, 
but  it  was  too  late.) 

"Now  you  are  simply  stupid,"  said  his 
father. 

John  was  beaten,  but  he  still  wished  to  continue 
the  conflict.  A  new  repartee  learned  at  school 
occurred  to  him. 


THe  ScHool  of  tHe  Cross  147 

"If  I  am  stupid,  that  is  a  natural  fault,  which 
no  one  has  the  right  to  reproach  me  with. " 

"Shame  on  you  for  talking  such  rubbish!  Go 
out  and  don't  let  me  see  you  any  more!"  And  he 
was  put  out. 

After  this  scene  all  punishments  took  place  in 
John's  absence.  It  was  believed  he  would  spring 
at  their  throats  if  he  heard  any  cries,  and  that  was 
probable  enough. 

There  was  yet  another  method  of  humbling  him 
— a  hateful  method  which  is  often  employed  in 
families.  It  consisted  of  arresting  his  mental 
and  moral  growth  by  confining  him  to  the 
society  of  his  younger  brothers  and  sisters. 
Children  are  often  obliged  to  play  with  their 
brothers  and  sisters  whether  they  are  congenial 
to  them  or  not.  That  is  tyranny.  But  to 
compel  an  elder  child  to  go  about  with  the  younger 
ones  is  a  crime  against  nature ;  it  is  the  mutilation 
of  a  young  growing  tree.  John  had  a  younger 
brother,  a  delightful  child  of  seven,  who  trusted 
everyone  and  worried  no  one.  John  loved  him 
and  took  good  care  that  he  was  not  ill-treated. 
But  to  have  intimate  intercourse  with  such  a 
young  child,  who  did  not  understand  the  talk  and 
conversation  of  its  elders,  was  impossible. 


148  XKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

But  now  he  was  obliged  to  do  so.  On  the  first 
of  May,  when  John  had  hoped  to  go  out  with  his 
friends,  his  father  said,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
"Take  Pelle  and  go  with  him  to  the  Zoological 
Gardens,  but  take  good  care  of  him. "  There  was 
no  possibility  of  remonstrance.  They  went  into 
the  open  plain,  where  they  met  some  of  his  com- 
rades, and  John  felt  the  presence  of  his  little 
brother  like  a  clog  on  his  leg.  He  took  care  that 
no  one  hurt  him,  but  he  wished  the  little  boy  was 
at  home.  Pclle  talked  at  the  top  of  his  voice  and 
pointed  with  his  finger  at  passers-by;  John  cor- 
rected him,  and  as  he  felt  his  solidarity  with  him, 
felt  ashamed  on  his  account.  Why  must  he  be 
ashamed  because  of  a  fault  in  etiquette  which  he 
had  not  himself  committed?  He  became  stiff, 
cold,  and  hard.  The  little  boy  wanted  to  see  some 
sight  but  John  would  not  go,  and  refused  all  his 
little  brother's  requests.  Then  he  felt  ashamed  of 
his  hardness;  he  cursed  his  selfishness,  he  hated 
and  despised  himself,  but  could  not  get  rid  of  his 
bad  feelings.  Pelle  understood  nothing;  he  only 
looked  troubled,  resigned,  patient,  and  gentle. 
"You  are  proud,"  said  John  to  himself;  "you  are 
robbing  the  child  of  a  pleasure. "  He  felt  remorse- 
ful, but  soon  afterwards  hard  again. 


TKe  ScHool  of  tHe  Cross  149 

At  last  the  child  asked  him  to  buy  some  ginger- 
bread nuts.  John  felt  himself  insulted  by  the 
request.  Suppose  one  of  his  fellow-collegians  who 
sat  in  the  restaurant  and  drank  punch  saw  him 
buying  gingerbread  nuts!  But  he  bought  some, 
and  stuffed  them  in  his  brother's  pocket.  Then 
they  went  on.  Two  cadets,  John's  acquaintances, 
came  towards  him.  At  this  moment  a  little  hand 
reached  him  a  gingerbread  nut — "Here  's  one  for 
you,  John ! "  He  pushed  the  little  hand  away,  and 
simultaneously  saw  two  blue  faithful  eyes  looking 
up  to  him  plaintively  and  questioningly.  He  felt 
as  if  he  could  weep,  take  the  hurt  child  in  his  arms, 
and  ask  his  forgiveness  in  order  to  melt  the  ice 
which  had  crystallised  round  his  heart.  He  de- 
spised himself  for  having  pushed  his  brother's 
hand  away.     They  went  home. 

He  wished  to  shake  the  recollection  of  his  mis- 
deed from  him,  but  could  not.  But  he  laid  the 
blame  of  it  partly  at  the  door  of  those  who  had 
caused  this  sorry  situation.  He  was  too  old  to 
stand  on  the  same  level  with  the  child,  and  too 
young  to  be  able  to  condescend  to  it. 

His  father,  who  had  been  rejuvenated  by  his 
marriage  with  a  young  wife,  ventured  to  oppose 
John's  learned  authorities,  and  wished  to  humble 


I50  XHe  Son  of  a  Servant 

him  in  this  department  also.  After  supper  one 
evening,  they  were  sitting  at  table,  his  father  with 
his  three  papers,  the  AJtonbladet,  Allehanda,  and 
Post-tidnifigen,  and  John  with  a  school-book. 
Presently  his  father  stopped  reading. 

"What  are  you  reading?"  he  asked. 

"Philosophy." 

A  long  pause.  The  boys  always  used  to  call 
logic  "  philosophy. " 

"What  is  philosophy,  really?" 

"The  science  of  thought." 

"Hm!  Must  one  learn  how  to  think?  Let 
me  see  the  book. "  He  put  his  pince-nez  on  and 
read.  Then  he  said,  "Do  you  think  the  peasant 
members  of  the  Riks-Dag  " '  (he  hated  the  peasants, 
but  now  used  them  for  the  purpose  of  his  argu- 
ment) "have  learned  philosophy?  I  don't,  and 
yet  they  manage  to  corner  the  professors  delight- 
fully. You  learn  such  a  lot  of  useless  stuff!" 
Thus  he  dismissed  philosophy. 

His  father's  parsimoniousness  also  sometimes 
placed  John  in  very  embarrassing  situations. 
Two  of  his  friends  offered  during  the  holidays  to 
give  him  lessons  in  mathematics.  John  asked  his 
father's  permission. 

'  The  Swedish  Parliament. 


THe  ScHool  of  tKe  Cross  151 

"All  right, "  he  said,  "  as  far  as  I  am  concerned. " 

When  the  time  came  for  them  to  receive  an 
honorarium,  his  father  was  of  the  opinion  that  they 
were  so  rich  that  one  could  not  give  them  money. 

"But  one  might  make  them  a  present,"  said 
John. 

"  I  won't  give  anything, "  was  the  answer. 

John  felt  ashamed  for  a  whole  year  and  realised 
for  the  first  time  the  unpleasantness  of  a  debt. 
His  two  friends  gave  at  first  gentle  and  then  broad 
hints.  He  did  not  avoid  them,  but  crawled  after 
them  in  order  to  show  his  gratitude.  He  felt  that 
they  possessed  a  part  of  his  soul  and  body;  that 
he  was  their  slave  and  could  not  be  free.  Some- 
times he  made  them  promises,  because  he  imagined 
he  could  fulfil  them,  but  they  could  not  be  ful- 
filled, and  the  burden  of  the  debt  was  increased 
by  their  being  broken.  It  was  a  time  of  infinite 
torment,  probably  more  bitter  at  the  time  than  it 
seemed  afterwards. 

Another  step  in  arresting  his  progress  was  the 
postponement  of  his  Confirmation.  He  learned 
theology  at  school,  and  could  read  the  Gospels  in 
Greek,  but  was  not  considered  mature  enough  for 
Confirmation. 

He  felt  the  grinding-down  process  at  home  all 


152  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

the  more  because  his  position  in  the  school  was 
that  of  a  free  man.  As  a  collegian  he  had  ac- 
quired certain  rights.  He  was  not  made  to  stand 
up  in  class,  and  went  out  when  he  wished  without 
asking  permission;  he  remained  sitting  when  the 
teachers  asked  questions,  and  disputed  with  them. 
He  was  the  youngest  in  the  class  but  sat  among 
the  oldest  and  tallest.  The  teacher  now  played 
the  part  of  a  lecturer  rather  than  of  a  mere  hearer 
of  lessons.  The  former  ogre  from  the  Clara 
School  had  become  an  elderly  man  who  expounded 
Cicero's  De  Senectute  and  De  Amicitia  without 
troubling  himself  much  about  the  commentaries. 
In  reading  Virgil,  he  dwelt  on  the  meeting  of 
^neas  and  Dido,  enlarged  on  the  topic  of  love, 
lost  the  thread  of  his  discourse,  and  became 
melancholy.  (The  boys  found  out  that  about  this 
time  he  had  been  wooing  an  old  spinster.)  He  no 
longer  assumed  a  lofty  tone,  and  was  magnanimous 
enough  to  admit  a  mistake  he  had  made  (he  was 
weak  in  Latin)  and  to  acknowledge  that  he  was 
not  an  authority  in  that  subject.  From  this  he 
drew  the  moral  that  no  one  should  come  to  school 
without  preparation,  however  clever  he  might  be. 
This  produced  a  great  effect  upon  the  boys.  He 
won  more  credit  as  a  man  than  he  lost  as  a  teacher. 


THe  ScKool  of  tHe  Cross  155 

John,  being  well  up  in  the  natural  sciences,  was 
the  only  one  out  of  his  class  elected  to  be  a  member 
of  the  "Society  of  Friends  of  Science."  He  was 
now  thrown  with  school-fellows  in  the  highest 
class,  who  the  next  year  would  become  students. 
He  had  to  give  a  lecture,  and  talked  about  it  at 
home.  He  wrote  an  essay  on  the  air,  and  read  it 
to  the  members.  After  the  lecture,  the  members 
went  into  a  restaurant  in  the  Haymarket  and 
drank  punch.  John  was  modest  before  the  big 
fellows,  but  felt  quite  at  his  ease.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  been  lifted  out  of  the  companion- 
ship of  those  of  his  own  age.  Others  related  im- 
proper anecdotes ;  he  shyly  related  a  harmless  one. 
Later  on,  some  of  the  members  visited  him  and 
took  away  some  of  his  best  plants  and  chemical 
apparatus. 

By  an  accident  John  found  a  new  friend  in  the 
school.  When  he  was  top  of  the  first  class  the 
Principal  came  in  one  day  with  a  tall  fellow  in  a 
frock-coat,  with  a  beard,  and  wearing  a  pince-nez. 

"Here,  John!"  he  said,  "take  charge  of  this 
youth;  he  is  freshly  come  from  the  country,  and 
show  him  round."  The  wearer  of  the  pince-nez 
looked  down  disdainfully  at  the  boy  in  the  jacket. 
They  sat  next  each  other;  John  took  the  book 


154  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

and  whispered  to  him;  the  other,  however,  knew 
nothing,  but  talked  about  cards  and  cafes. 

One  day  John  played  with  his  friend's  pince-nez 
and  broke  the  spring.  His  friend  was  vexed. 
John  promised  to  have  it  repaired,  and  took  the 
pince-nez  home.  It  weighed  upon  his  mind,  for 
he  did  not  know  whence  he  should  get  the  money 
in  order  to  have  it  mended.  Then  he  determined 
to  mend  it  himself.  He  took  out  the  screws,  bored 
holes  in  an  old  clock-spring,  but  did  not  succeed. 
His  friend  jogged  his  memory ;  John  was  in  despair. 
His  father  would  never  pay  for  it.  His  friend 
said,  "  I  will  have  it  repaired,  and  you  must  pay. " 
The  repair  cost  fifty  ore.  On  Monday  John 
handed  over  twelve  coppers,  and  promised  to  pay 
the  rest  the  following  Monday.  His  friend  smelt 
a  rat.  "That  is  your  breakfast-money,"  he  said; 
"do  you  get  only  twelve  coppers  a  week?" 
John  blushed  and  begged  him  to  take  the  money. 
The  next  Monday  he  handed  over  the  remainder. 
His  friend  resisted,  but  he  pressed  it  on  him. 

The  two  continued  together  as  school-fellows 
till  they  went  to  the  university  at  Upsala  and 
afterwards.  John's  friend  had  a  cheerful  tempera- 
ment and  took  the  world  as  it  came.  He  did  not 
argue  much  with  John,   but  always  made  him 


THe  ScHool  of  tKe  Cross  155 

laugh.  In  contrast  to  his  dreary  home,  John 
found  the  school  a  cheerful  refuge  from  domestic 
tyranny.  But  this  caused  him  to  lead  a  double 
life,  which  was  bound  to  produce  moral  dislocation. 


VII 

FIRST  LOVE 

If  the  character  of  a  man  is  the  stereotyped  r6le 
which  he  plays  in  the  comedy  of  social  life, 
John  at  this  time  had  no  character,  i.  e.,  he  was 
quite  sincere.  He  sought,  but  found  nothing,  and 
could  not  remain  in  any  fixed  groove.  His  coarse 
nature,  which  flung  off  all  fetters  that  were  im- 
posed upon  it,  could  not  adapt  itself;  and  his 
brain,  which  was  a  revolutionary's  from  birth, 
could  not  work  automatically.  He  was  a  mirror 
which  threw  back  all  the  rays  which  struck  it,  a 
compendium  of  various  experiences,  of  changing 
impressions,  and  full  of  contradictory  elements. 
He  possessed  a  will  which  worked  by  fits  and  starts 
and  with  fanatical  energy;  but  he  really  did  not 
will  anything  deeply;  he  was  a  fatalist,  and  be- 
lieved in  destiny;  he  was  sanguine,  and  hoped  all 
things.  Hard  as  ice  at  home,  he  was  sometimes 
sensitive  to  the  point  of  sentimentality;  he  would 

156 


First  Love  i57 

give  his  last  shirt  to  a  poor  man,  and  could  weep 
at  the  sight  of  injustice.  He  was  a  pietist,  and  as 
sincere  an  one  as  is  possible  for  anyone  who  tries 
to  adopt  an  old-world  point  of  view.  His  home- 
life,  where  everything  threatened  his  intellectual 
and  personal  liberty,  compelled  him  to  be  this. 
In  the  school  he  was  a  cheerful  worldling,  not  at  all 
sentimental,  and  easy  to  get  on  with.  Here  he 
felt  he  was  being  educated  for  society  and  pos- 
sessed rights.  At  home  he  was  like  an  edible 
vegetable,  cultivated  for  the  use  of  the  family, 
and  had  no  rights. 

He  was  also  a  pietist  from  spiritual  pride,  as  all 
pietists  are.  Beskow,  the  repentant  lieutenant, 
had  come  home  from  his  pilgrimage  to  the  grave  of 
Christ.  His  Journal  was  read  at  home  by  John's 
step-mother,  who  inclined  to  pietism.  Beskow 
made  pietism  gentlemanly,  and  brought  it  into 
fashion,  and  a  considerable  portion  of  the  lower 
classes  followed  this  fashion.  Pietism  was  then 
what  spiritualism  is  now — a  presumably  higher 
knowledge  of  hidden  things.  It  was  therefore 
eagerly  taken  up  by  all  women  and  uncultivated 
people,  and  finally  found  acceptance  at  Court. 

Did  all  this  spring  from  some  universal  spiritual 
need?     Was  the  period  so  hopelessly  reactionary 


158  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

that  one  had  to  be  a  pessimist?  No!  The  king 
led  a  jovial  life  in  Ulriksdal,  and  gave  society  a 
bright  and  liberal  tone.  Strong  agitations  were 
going  on  in  the  political  world,  especially  regarding 
representation  in  parliament.  The  Dano-Ger- 
man  war  aroused  attention  to  what  was  going 
on  beyond  our  boundaries;  the  volunteer  move- 
ment awoke  town  and  country  with  drums  and 
music ;  the  new  Opposition  papers,  Dagens  Nyheter 
and  the  powerful  Sondags-Nisse, were  vent-holes  for 
the  confined  steam  which  must  find  an  outlet ;  rail- 
ways were  constructed  everywhere,  and  brought 
remote  and  sparsely  inhabited  places  into  connec- 
tion with  the  great  motor  nerve-centres.  It  was  no 
melancholy  age  of  decadence,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
a  youthful  season  of  hope  and  awakening.  Whence 
then,  came  this  strong  breath  of  pietism?  Per- 
haps it  was  a  short-cut  for  those  who  were  desti- 
tute of  culture,  by  which  they  saved  themselves 
from  the  pressure  of  knowledge  from  above;  there 
was  a  certain  democratic  element  in  it,  since  all 
high  and  low  had  thereby  access  to  a  certain  kind 
of  wisdom  which  abolished  class-distinctions. 
Now,  when  the  privileges  of  birth  were  nearing 
their  end,  the  privileges  of  culture  asserted  them- 
selves, and  were  felt  to  be  oppressive.     But  it  was 


First  Love  159 

believed  that  they  could  be  niillified  at  a  stroke 
through  pietism. 

John  became  a  pietist  from  many  motives. 
Bankrupt  on  earth,  since  he  was  doomed  to  die  at 
twenty-five  without  spinal  marrow  or  a  nose,  he 
made  heaven  the  object  of  his  search.  Melan- 
choly by  nature,  but  full  of  activity,  he  loved  what 
was  melancholy.  Tired  of  text-books,  which  con- 
tained no  living  water  because  they  did  not  come 
into  contact  with  life,  he  foimd  more  nourishment 
in  a  religion  which  did  so  at  every  turn.  Besides 
this,  there  was  the  personal  motive,  that  his  step- 
mother, aware  of  his  superiority  in  culture,  wished 
to  climb  above  him  on  the  Jacob's  ladder  of  religion. 
She  conversed  with  his  eldest  brother  on  the  highest 
subjects,  and  when  John  was  near,  he  was  obliged 
to  hear  how  they  despised  his  worldly  wisdom. 
This  irritated  him,  and  he  determined  to  catch 
up  with  them  in  religion.  Moreover,  his  mother 
had  left  a  written  message  behind  in  which  she 
warned  him  against  intellectual  pride.  The  end 
was  that  he  went  regularly  every  Sunday  to  church, 
and  the  house  was  flooded  with  pietistic  writings. 

His  step-mother  and  eldest  brother  used  to  go 
over  afterwards  in  memory  the  sermons  they 
had  heard  in  church.     One  Sunday  after  service 


i6o  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

John  wrote  out  from  memory  the  whole  sermon 
which  they  admired.  He  could  not  deny  himself 
the  pleasure  of  presenting  it  to  his  step-mother. 
But  his  present  was  not  received  with  equal  plea- 
sure ;  it  was  a  blow  for  her.  However,  she  did  not 
yield  a  hair-breadth.  "God's  word  should  be 
written  in  the  heart  and  not  on  paper,"  she  said. 
It  was  not  a  bad  retort,  but  John  believed  he 
detected  pride  in  it.  She  considered  herself  fur- 
ther on  in  the  way  of  holiness  than  he,  and  as 
already  a  child  of  God. 

He  began  to  race  with  her,  and  frequented  the 
pietist  meetings.  But  his  attendance  was  frowned 
upon,  for  he  had  not  yet  been  confirmed,  and 
was  not  therefore  ripe  for  heaven.  John  con- 
tinued religious  discussions  with  his  elder  brother; 
he  maintained  that  Christ  had  declared  that  even 
children  belonged  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  The 
subject  was  hotly  contested.  John  cited  Nor- 
beck's  Theology,  but  that  was  rejected  without 
being  looked  at.  He  also  quoted  Krummacher, 
Thomas  a  Kempis,  and  all  the  pietists  on  his  side. 
But  it  was  no  use.  ' '  It  must  be  so, "  was  the  reply. 
"How?"  he  asked.  "As  I  have  it,  and  as  you 
cannot  get  it."  "As  I!"  There  we  have  the 
formula  of  the  pietists — self -righteousness. 


First  Love  i6i 

One  day  John  said  that  all  men  were  God's 
children.  "Impossible!"  was  the  reply;  "then 
there  woiild  be  no  difficulty  in  being  saved.  Are 
all  going  to  be  saved?" 

"Certainly!"  he  replied.  "God  is  love  and 
wishes  no  one's  destruction." 

"  If  all  are  going  to  be  saved,  what  is  the  use  of 
chastising  oneself? " 

"Yes,  that  is  just  what  I  question." 

"You  are  then  a  sceptic,  a  hypocrite?" 

"Quite  possibly  they  all  are." 

John  now  wished  to  take  heaven  by  storm,  to 
become  a  child  of  God,  and  perhaps  by  doing  so 
defeat  his  rivals.  His  step-mother  was  not  con- 
sistent. She  went  to  the  theatre  and  was  fond  of 
dancing.  One  Saturday  evening  in  simimer  it 
was  announced  that  the  whole  family  would  make 
an  excursion  into  the  country  the  next  day — 
Sunday.  All  were  expected  to  go.  John  con- 
sidered it  a  sin,  did  not  want  to  go,  and  wished 
to  use  the  opportunity  and  seek  in  solitude  the 
Saviour  whom  he  had  not  yet  found.  According 
to  what  he  had  been  told,  conversion  should  come 
like  a  flash  of  lightning,  and  be  accompanied  by 
the  conviction  that  one  was  a  child  of  God,  and 

then  one  had  peace. 
II 


1 62  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

While  his  father  was  reading  his  paper  in  the 
evening,  John  begged  permission  to  remain  at 
home  the  next  day. 

"Why?"  his  father  asked  in  a  friendly  tone. 

John  was  silent.     He  felt  ashamed  to  say. 

"  If  your  religious  conviction  forbids  you  to  go, 
obey  your  conscience." 

His  step-mother  was  defeated.  She  had  to 
desecrate  the  Sabbath,  not  he. 

The  others  went.  John  went  to  the  Bethlehem 
Church  to  hear  Rosenius.  It  was  a  weird,  gloomy 
place,  and  the  men  in  the  congregation  looked  as  if 
they  had  reached  the  fatal  twenty-fifth  year,  and 
lost  their  spinal  marrow.  They  had  leaden-grey 
faces  and  sunken  eyes.  Was  it  possible  that  Dr. 
Kapff  had  frightened  them  all  into  religion?  It 
seemed  strange. 

Rosenius  looked  like  peace  itself,  and  beamed 
with  heavenly  joy.  He  confessed  that  he  had 
been  an  old  sinner,  but  Christ  had  cleansed  him, 
and  now  he  was  happy.  He  looked  happy.  Is  it 
possible  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  happy  man? 
Why,  then,  are  not  all  pietists? 

In  the  afternoon  John  read  a  Kempis  and 
Krummacher.  Then  he  went  out  to  the  Haga 
Park  and  prayed  the  whole  length  of  the  Norrtulls- 


First  Love  163 

gata  that  Jesus  would  seek  him.  In  the  Haga 
Park  there  sat  little  groups  of  families  picnicking, 
with  the  children  playing  about.  Is  it  possible 
that  all  these  must  go  to  hell?  he  thought.  Yes, 
certainly.  ' '  Nonsense ! ' '  answered  his  intelligence . 
But  it  is  so.  A  carriage  full  of  excursionists  passed 
by:  and  these  are  all  condemned  already!  But 
they  seemed  to  be  amusing  themselves,  at  any 
rate.  The  cheerfulness  of  other  people  made 
him  still  more  depressed,  and  he  felt  a  terrible 
loneliness  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd.  Wearied 
with  his  thoughts,  he  went  home  as  depressed  as  a 
poet  who  has  looked  for  a  thought  without  being 
able  to  find  one.  He  laid  down  on  his  bed  and 
wished  he  was  dead. 

In  the  evening  his  brothers  and  sisters  came 
home  joyful  and  noisy,  and  asked  him  if  he  had 
had  a  good  time. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "And  you?" 

They  gave  him  details  of  the  excursion,  and 
each  time  he  envied  them  he  felt  a  stab  in  his 
heart.  His  step-mother  did  not  look  at  him,  for  she 
had  broken  the  Sabbath.  That  was  his  comfort. 
He  must  by  this  time  soon  have  detected  his 
self-deceit  and  thrown  it  off,  but  a  new  powerful 
element  entered  into  his  life,  which  stirred  up  his 


i64  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

asceticism  into  fanaticism,   till  it  exploded  and 
disappeared. 

His  life  during  these  years  was  not  so  uniformly 
monotonous  as  it  appeared  in  retrospect  later  on, 
when  there  were  enough  dark  points  to  give  a  grey 
colouring  to  the  whole.  His  boyhood,  generally 
speaking,  was  darkened  by  his  being  treated  as  a 
child  when  arrived  at  puberty,  the  uninteresting 
character  of  his  school-work,  his  expectation  of 
death  at  twenty-five,  the  uncultivated  minds  of 
those  around  him,  and  the  impossibility  of  being 
understood. 

His  step-mother  had  brought  three  young  girls, 
her  sisters,  into  the  house.  They  soon  made 
friends  with  the  step-sons,  and  they  all  took  walks, 
played  games,  and  made  sledging  excursions  to- 
gether. The  girls  tried  to  bring  about  a  recon- 
ciliation between  John  and  his  step-mother.  They 
acknowledged  their  sister's  faults  before  him,  and 
this  pacified  him  so  that  he  laid  aside  his  hatred. 
The  grandmother  also  played  the  part  of  a  medi- 
ator, and  finally  revealed  herself  as  a  decided 
friend  of  John's.  But  a  fatal  chance  robbed  him 
of  this  friend  also.  His  father's  sister  had  not 
welcomed  the  new  marriage,  and,  as  a  conse- 
quence, had  broken  off  communications  with  her 


First  Love  165 

brother.  This  vexed  the  old  man  very  much. 
All  intercourse  ceased  between  the  families.  It 
was,  of  course,  pride  on  his  sister's  part.  But  one 
day  John  met  her  daughter,  an  elegantly-dressed 
girl,  older  than  himself,  on  the  street.  She  was 
eager  to  hear  something  of  the  new  marriage,  and 
walked  with  John  along  the  Drottningsgata. 

When  he  got  home,  his  grandmother  rebuked 
him  sharply  for  not  having  saluted  her  when  she 
passed,  but,  of  course,  she  added,  he  had  been  in 
too  grand  company  to  take  notice  of  an  old  woman ! 
He  protested  his  innocence,  but  in  vain.  Since  he 
had  only  a  few  friends,  the  loss  of  her  friendship 
was  painful  to  him. 

One  summer  he  spent  with  his  step-mother  at 
one  of  her  relatives',  a  farmer  in  Ostergotland. 
Here  he  was  treated  like  a  gentleman,  and  lived 
on  friendly  terms  with  his  step-mother.  But  it 
did  not  last  long,  and  soon  the  flames  of  strife  were 
stirred  up  again  between  them.  And  thus  it  went 
on,  up  and  down,  and  to  and  fro. 

About  this  time,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  he  first 
fell  in  love,  if  it  really  was  love,  and  not  rather 
friendship.  Can  friendship  commence  and  con- 
tinue between  members  of  opposite  sexes?  Only 
apparently,  for  the  sexes  are  bom  enemies  and 


i66  XKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

remain  always  opposed  to  each  other.  Positive 
and  negative  streams  of  electricity  are  mutually 
hostile,  but  seek  their  complement  in  each  other. 
Friendship  can  exist  only  between  persons  with 
similiar  interests  and  points  of  view.  Man  and 
woman  by  the  conventions  of  society  are  born  with 
different  interests  and  difierents  points  of  view. 
Therefore  a  friendship  between  the  sexes  can  arise 
only  in  marriage  where  the  interests  are  the  same. 
This,  however,  can  be  only  so  long  as  the  wife 
devotes  her  whole  interest  to  the  family  for  which 
the  husband  works.  As  soon  as  she  gives  herself 
to  some  object  outside  the  family,  the  agreement 
is  broken,  for  man  and  wife  then  have  separate 
interests,  and  then  there  is  an  end  to  friendship. 
Therefore  purely  spiritual  marriages  are  im- 
possible, for  they  lead  to  the  slavery  of  the  man, 
and  consequently  to  the  speedy  dissolution  of  the 
marriage. 

The  fifteen-year  old  boy  fell  in  love  with  a 
woman  of  thirty.  He  could  truthfully  assert  that 
his  love  was  entirely  ideal.  How  came  he  to  love 
her?  As  generally  is  the  case,  from  many  motives, 
not  from  one  only. 

She  was  the  landlord's  daughter,  and  had,  as 
such,   a  superior  position;  the  house  was  well- 


First  Love  167 

appointed  and  always  open  for  visitors.  She  was 
cultivated,  admired,  managed  the  house,  and 
spoke  familiarly  to  her  mother ;  she  could  play  the 
hostess  and  lead  the  conversation ;  she  was  always 
surrounded  by  men  who  courted  her.  She  was 
also  emancipated  without  being  a  man-hater;  she 
smoked  and  drank,  but  was  not  without  taste. 
She  was  engaged  to  a  man  whom  her  father  hated 
and  did  not  wish  to  have  for  his  son-in-law.  Her 
fiance  stayed  abroad  and  wrote  seldom.  Among 
the  visitors  to  this  hotel  were  a  district  judge,  a 
man  of  letters,  students,  clerics,  and  townsmen 
who  all  hovered  about  her.  John's  father  admired 
her,  his  step-mother  feared  her,  his  brothers 
courted  her.  John  kept  in  the  background  and 
observed  her.  It  was  a  long  time  before  she  dis- 
covered him.  One  evening,  after  she  had  set  all 
the  hearts  around  her  aflame,  she  came  exhausted 
into  the  room  in  which  John  sat. 

"Heavens!  how  tired  I  am!"  she  said  to  her- 
self, and  threw  herself  on  a  sofa, 

John  made  a  movement  and  she  saw  him.  He 
had  to  say  something. 

"Are  you  so  unhappy,  although  you  are  always 
laughing?  You  are  certainly  not  as  unhappy  as 
lam." 


i68  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

She  looked  at  the  boy;  they  began  a  conver- 
sation and  became  friends.  He  felt  lifted  up. 
From  that  time  forward  she  preferred  his  con- 
versation to  that  of  others.  He  felt  embarrassed 
when  she  left  a  circle  of  grown  men  to  sit  down 
near  him.  He  questioned  her  regarding  her  spirit- 
ual condition,  and  made  remarks  on  it  which 
showed  that  he  had  observed  keenly  and  re- 
flected much.  He  became  her  conscience.  Once, 
when  she  had  jested  too  freely,  she  came  to  the 
youth  to  be  punished.  That  was  a  kind  of  flagel- 
lation as  pleasant  as  a  caress.  At  last  her  ad- 
mirers began  to  tease  her  about  him. 

"Can  you  imagine  it,"  she  said  one  evening, 
"they  declare  I  am  in  love  with  you!" 

"They  always  say  that  of  two  persons  of  oppo- 
site sexes  who  are  friends." 

"Do  you  believe  there  can  be  a  friendship 
between  man  and  woman?" 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  of  it,"  he  answered. 

"Thanks,"  she  said,  and  reached  him  her  hand. 
"How  could  I,  who  am  twice  as  old  as  you,  who 
am  sick  and  ugly,  be  in  love  with  you?  Besides, 
I  am  engaged." 

After  this  she  assumed  an  air  of  superiority  and 
became  motherly.     This  made  a  deep  impression 


First  Love  169 

on  him;  and  when  later  on  she  was  rallied  on 
account  of  her  liking  for  him,  she  felt  herself 
almost  embarrassed,  banished  all  other  feelings 
except  that  of  motherliness,  and  began  to  labour 
for  his  conversion,  for  she  also  was  a  pietist. 

They  both  attended  a  French  conversation 
class,  and  had  long  walks  home  together,  during 
which  they  spoke  French.  It  was  easier  to  speak 
of  delicate  matters  in  a  foreign  tongue.  He  also 
wrote  French  essays,  which  she  corrected.  His 
father's  admiration  for  the  old  maid  lessened,  and 
his  step -mother  did  not  like  this  French  conver- 
sation, which  she  did  not  understand.  His  elder 
brother's  prerogative  of  talking  French  was  also 
neutralised  thereby.  This  vexed  his  father,  so 
that  one  day  he  said  to  John,  that  it  was  impolite 
to  speak  a  foreign  language  before  those  who  did 
not  understand  it,  and  that  he  could  not  under- 
stand that  Fraulein  X.,  who  was  otherwise  so 
cultivated,  could  commit  such  a  betise.  But,  he 
added,  cultivation  of  the  heart  was  not  gained  by 
book-learning. 

They  no  longer  endured  her  presence  in  the 
house,  and  she  was  "persecuted."  At  last  her 
family  left  the  house  altogether,  so  that  now  there 
was  little  intercourse  with  them.     The  day  after 


170  The  Son  of  a  Servant 

their  removal,  John  felt  lacerated.  He  could  not 
live  without  her  daily  companionship,  without 
this  support  which  had  lifted  him  out  of  the  society 
of  those  of  his  own  age  to  that  of  his  elders.  To 
make  himself  ridiculous  by  seeking  her  as  a  lover — 
that  he  could  not  do.  The  only  thing  left  was  to 
write  to  her.  They  now  opened  a  correspon- 
dence, which  lasted  for  a  year.  His  step-mother's 
sister,  who  idolised  the  clever,  bright  spinster, 
conveyed  the  letters  secretly.  They  wrote  in 
French,  so  that  their  letters  might  remain  un- 
intelligible if  discovered;  besides,  they  could  ex- 
press themselves  more  freely  in  this  medium. 
Their  letters  treated  of  all  kinds  of  subjects. 
They  wrote  about  Christ,  the  battle  against  sin, 
about  life,  death  and  love,  friendship  and  scepti- 
cism. Although  she  was  a  pietist,  she  was  famil- 
iar with  free-thinkers,  and  suffered  from  doubts 
on  all  kinds  of  subjects.  John  was  alternately 
her  stern  preceptor  and  her  reprimanded  son. 
One  or  two  translations  of  John's  French  essays 
will  give  some  idea  of  the  chaotic  state  of  the 
minds  of  both. 

7^  Man 's  Life  a  Life  of  Sorrow  ?  1864 

"Man's  life  is  a  battle  from  beginning  to  end. 


First  Love  171 

We  are  all  bom  into  this  wretched  life  under 
conditions  which  are  full  of  trouble  and  grief. 
Childhood  to  begin  with  has  its  little  cares  and 
disagreeables ;  youth  has  its  great  temptations,  on 
the  victorious  resistance  to  which  the  whole  sub- 
sequent life  depends;  mature  life  has  anxieties 
about  the  means  of  existence  and  the  fulfilment  of 
duties;  finally,  old  age  has  its  thorns  in  the  flesh, 
and  its  frailty.  What  are  all  enjoyments  and  all 
joys,  which  are  regarded  by  so  many  men  as  the 
highest  good  in  life?  Beautiful  illusions!  Life 
is  a  ceaseless  struggle  with  failures  and  misfor- 
tunes, a  struggle  which  ends  only  in  death. 

"  But  we  will  consider  the  matter  from  another 
side.  Is  there  no  reason  to  be  joyful  and  con- 
tented? I  have  a  home  and  parents  who  care 
for  my  future;  I  live  in  fairly  favourable  cir- 
cumstances, and  have  good  health — ought  I  not 
then  to  be  contented  and  happy?  Yes,  and  yet  I 
am  not.  Look  at  the  poor  labourer,  who,  when 
his  day's  work  is  done,  returns  to  his  simple 
cottage  where  poverty  reigns;  he  is  happy  and 
even  joyfiil.  He  would  be  made  glad  by  a  trifle 
which  I  despise.  I  envy  thee,  happy  man,  who 
hast  true  joy! 

'*  But  I  am  melancholy.     Why?     'You  are  dis- 


172  XHe  Son  of  a  Servant 

contented, '  you  answer.  No,  certainly  not ;  I  am 
quite  contented  with  my  lot  and  ask  for  nothing. 
Well,  what  is  it  then?  Ah!  now  I  know;  I  am 
not  contented  with  myself  and  my  heart,  which  is 
full  of  anger  and  malice.  Away  from  me,  evil 
thoughts!  I  will,  with  God's  help,  be  happy  and 
contented.  For  one  is  happy  only  when  one  is 
at  peace  with  oneself,  one's  heart,  and  one's 
conscience." 

John's  friend  did  not  approve  of  his  self-content- 
ment, but  asserted  in  contradiction  to  the  last 
sentence,  that  one  ought  to  remain  discontented 
with  life.  She  wrote:  "We  are  not  happy  till  our 
consciousness  tells  us  that  we  have  sought  and 
found  the  only  Good  Physician,  who  can  heal  the 
wounds  of  all  hearts,  and  when  we  are  ready  to 
follow  His  advice  with  sincerity. " 

This  assertion,  together  with  long  conversations, 
caused  the  rapid  conversion  of  the  youth  to  the 
true  faith,  i.e.,  that  of  his  friend,  and  gave  occa- 
sion for  the  following  effusion  in  which  he  expressed 
his  idea  of  faith  and  works : 

No  Happiness  without  Virtue;  no  Virtus 
without  Religion.     1864 

"  What  is  happiness?     Most  worldlings  regard 


First  Love  173 

the  possession  of  great  wealth  and  worldly  goods, 
happiness,  because  they  afford  them  the  means  of 
satisfying  their  sinful  desires  and  passions.  Others 
who  are  not  so  exacting  find  happiness  in  a  mere 
sense  of  well-being,  in  health,  and  domestic  feli- 
city. Others,  again,  who  do  not  expect  worldly 
happiness  at  all,  and  who  are  poor,  and  enjoy  but 
scanty  food  earned  by  hard  work,  are  yet  con- 
tented with  their  lot,  and  even  happy.  They  can 
even  think  '  How  happy  I  am  in  comparison  with 
the  rich,  who  are  never  contented.'  Meanwhile, 
are  they  really  happy,  because  they  are  contented? 
No,  there  is  no  happiness  without  virtue.  No 
one  is  happy  except  the  man  who  leads  a  really 
virtuous  life.  Well,  but  there  are  many  really 
virtuous  men.  There  are  men  who  have  never 
fallen  into  gross  sin,  who  are  modest  and  retiring, 
who  injure  no  one,  who  are  placable,  who  fulfil 
their  duties  conscientiously,  and  who  are  even 
religious.  They  go  to  church  every  Sunday, 
they  honour  God  and  His  Holy  Word,  but  yet 
they  have  not  been  bom  again  of  the  Holy  Spirit. 
Now,  are  they  happy,  since  they  are  virtuous? 
There  is  no  virtue  without  real  religion.  These 
virtuous  worldlings  are,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  much 
worse  than  the  most  wicked  men.     They  slumber 


174  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

in  the  security  of  mere  morality.  They  think 
themselves  better  than  other  men,  and  righteous 
in  the  eyes  of  the  Most  Holy.  These  Pharisees, 
full  of  self-love,  think  to  win  everlasting  sal- 
vation by  their  good  deeds.  But  what  are  our 
good  deeds  before  a  Holy  God?  Sin,  and  nothing 
but  sin.  These  self-righteous  men  are  the  hardest 
of  all  to  convert,  because  they  think  they  need  no 
Mediator,  since  they  wish  to  win  heaven  by  their 
deeds.  An  '  old  sinner, '  on  the  other  hand,  once 
he  is  awakened,  can  realise  his  sinfulness  and  feel 
his  need  of  a  Savioiu.  True  happiness  consists  in 
having  'Peace  in  the  heart  with  God  through 
Jesus  Christ.'  One  can  find  no  peace  till  one 
confesses  that  one  is  the  chief  of  sinners,  and  flies 
to  the  Saviour.  How  foolish  of  us  to  push  such 
happiness  away !  We  all  know  where  it  is  to  be 
found,  but  instead  of  seeking  it,  seek  unhappiness, 
under  the  pretence  of  seeking  happiness." 

Under  this  his  friend  wrote:  ''Very  well 
written."  They  were  her  own  thoughts,  or, 
at  any  rate,  her  own  words  which  she  had 
read. 

But  sometimes  doubt  worried  him,  and  he 
examined  himself  carefully.  He  wrote  as  follows 
on  a  subject  which  he  had  himself  chosen: 


First  Love  175 

Egotism  is  the  Mainspring  of  all  our  Actions 

"People  commonly  say,  ' So-and-so  is  so  kind 
and  benevolent  towards  his  neighbours;  he  is 
virtuous,  and  all  that  he  does  springs  from  com- 
passion and  love  of  the  true  and  right.'  Very 
well,  open  your  heart  and  examine  it.  You  meet 
a  beggar  in  the  street;  the  first  thought  that 
occurs  to  you  is  certainly  as  follows:  'How  un- 
fortunate this  man  is;  I  will  do  a  good  deed  and 
help  him.*  You  pity  him  and  give  him  a  coin. 
But  have  n't  you  some  thought  of  this  kind  ? — *  Oh, 
how  beautiful  it  is  to  be  benevolent  and  com- 
passionate; it  does  one's  heart  good  to  give  alms 
to  a  poor  man. '  What  is  the  real  motive  of  your 
action?  Is  it  really  love  or  compassion?  Then 
your  dear  'ego'  gets  up  and  condemns  you. 
You  did  it  for  your  own  sake,  in  order  to  set  at 
rest  your  heart  and  to  placate  your  conscience. 
•  "  It  was  for  some  time  my  intention  to  be  a 
preacher,  certainly  a  good  intention.  But  what 
was  my  motive?  Was  it  to  serve  my  Redeemer, 
and  to  work  for  Him,  or  only  out  of  love  to  Him? 
No,  I  was  cowardly,  and  I  wished  to  escape  my 
burden  and  lighten  my  cross,  and  avoid  the  great 
temptations  which  met  me  everywhere.  I  feared 
men — that  was  the  motive.     The  times  alter.     I 


176  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

saw  that  I  could  not  lead  a  life  in  Christ  in  the 
society  of  companions  to  whose  godless  speeches 
I  must  daily  listen,  and  so  I  chose  another  path  in 
life  where  I  coiild  be  independent,  or  at  any 
rate " 

Here  the  essay  broke  off,  uncorrected.  Other 
essays  deal  with  the  Creator,  and  seem  to  have 
been  influenced  by  Rousseau,  extracts  from  whose 
works  were  contained  in  Staaff's  French  Reading 
Book.  They  mention,  for  example,  flocks  and 
nightingales,  which  the  writer  had  never  seen 
or  heard. 

He  and  his  friend  also  had  long  discussions 
regarding  their  relation  to  one  another.  Was  it 
love  or  friendship?  But  she  loved  another  man, 
of  whom  she  scarcely  ever  spoke.  John  noticed 
nothing  in  her  but  her  eyes,  which  were  deep  and 
expressive.  He  danced  with  her  once,  but  never 
again.  The  tie  between  them  was  certainly  only 
friendship,  and  her  soul  and  body  were  virile 
enough  to  permit  of  a  friendship  existing  and 
continuing.  A  spiritual  marriage  can  take  place 
only  between  those  who  are  more  or  less  sexless, 
and  there  is  always  something  abnormal  about  it. 
The  best  marriages,  i.  e.,  those  which  fulfil  their 


First  Love  177 

real  object  the  best,  are  precisely  those  which  are 
"ma/  assortis.*' 

Antipathy,  dissimilarity  of  views,  hate,  con- 
tempt, can  accompany  true  love.  Diverse  in- 
telligences and  characters  can  produce  the  best 
endowed  children,  who  inherit  the  qualities  of 
both. 

•  •••••  • 

In  the  meantime  his  Confirmation  approached. 
It  had  been  postponed  as  long  as  possible,  in  order 
to  keep  him  back  among  the  children.  But  the 
Confirmation  itself  was  to  be  used  as  a  means  of 
humiliating  him.  His  father,  at  the  same  time 
that  he  announced  his  decision  that  it  should  take 
place,  expressed  the  hope  that  the  preparation  for 
it  might  melt  the  ice  round  John's  heart. 

So  John  found  himself  again  among  lower-class 
children.  He  felt  sympathy  with  them,  but  did 
not  love  them,  nor  could  nor  would  be  on  intimate 
terms  with  them.  His  education  had  alienated 
him  from  them,  as  it  had  alienated  him  from  his 
family. 

He  was  again  a  school-boy,  had  to  learn  by 
heart,  stand  up  when  questioned,  and  be  scolded 
along  with  the  rest.  The  assistant  pastor,  who 
taught  them,  was  a  pietist.     He  looked  as  though 

13 


1 78  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

he  had  an  infectious  disease  or  had  read  Dr. 
Kapff.  He  was  severe,  merciless,  emotionless, 
without  a  word  of  grace  or  comfort.  Choleric, 
irritable,  nervous,  this  young  rustic  was  petted 
by  the  ladies. 

He  made  an  impression  by  dint  of  perpetual 
repetition.  He  preached  threateningly,  cursed 
the  theatre  and  every  kind  of  amusement.  John 
and  his  friend  resolved  to  alter  their  lives,  and  not 
to  dance,  go  to  the  theatre,  or  joke  any  more.  He 
now  infused  a  strong  dash  of  pietism  into  his 
essays,  and  avoided  his  companions  in  order  not 
to  hear  their  frivolous  stories. 

"Why,  you  are  a  pietist!"  one  of  his  school- 
fellows said  one  day  to  him. 

"  Yes,  I  am, "  he  answered.  He  would  not  deny 
his  Redeemer.  The  school  grew  intolerable  to 
him.  He  suffered  martyrdom  there,  and  feared  the 
enticements  of  the  world,  of  which  he  was  already 
in  some  degree  conscious.  He  considered  himself 
already  a  man,  wished  to  go  into  the  world  and 
work,  earn  his  own  living  and  marry.  Among  his 
other  dreams  he  formed  a  strange  resolve,  which 
was,  however,  not  without  its  reasons;  he  resolved 
to  find  a  branch  of  work  which  was  easy  to  learn, 
would  soon  provide  him  with  a  maintenance,  and 


First  Love  179 

give  him  a  place  where  he  would  not  be  the 
last,  nor  need  he  stand  especially  high — a  certain 
subordinate  place  which  would  let  him  combine 
an  active  life  in  the  open  air  with  adequate  pe- 
cuniary profit.  The  opportunity  for  plenty  of 
exercise  in  the  open  air  was  perhaps  the  principal 
reason  why  he  wished  to  be  a  subaltern  in  a 
cavalry  regiment,  in  order  to  escape  the  fatal 
twenty-fifth  year,  the  terrors  of  which  the  pastor 
had  described.  The  prospect  of  wearing  a  uni- 
form and  riding  a  horse  may  also  have  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it.  He  had  already  renounced 
the  cadet  uniform,  but  man  is  a  strange  creature. 

His  friend  strongly  dissuaded  him  from  taking 
such  a  step;  she  described  soldiers  as  the  worst 
kind  of  men  in  existence.  He  stood  firm,  however, 
and  said  that  his  faith  in  Christ  would  preserve 
him  from  all  moral  contagion,  yes!  he  would 
preach  Christ  to  the  soldiers  and  purify  them  all. 
Then  he  went  to  his  father.  The  latter  regarded 
the  whole  matter  as  a  freak  of  imagination,  and 
exhorted  him  to  be  ready  for  his  approaching 
final  examination,  which  would  open  the  whole 
world  to  him. 

A  son  had  been  born  to  his  step -mother.  John 
instinctively  hated  him  as  a  rival  to  whom  his 


i8o  The  Son  of  a  Servant 

younger  brothers  and  sisters  would  have  to  yield. 
But  the  influence  of  his  friend  and  of  pietism  was 
so  strong  over  him,  that  by  way  of  mortifying 
himself  he  tried  to  love  the  newcomer.  He 
carried  him  on  his  arm  and  rocked  him. 

"Nobody  saw  you  doit,"  said  his  step-mother 
later  on,  when  he  adduced  this  as  a  proof  of  his 
goodwill.  Exactly  so;  he  did  it  in  secret,  as  he 
did  not  wish  to  gain  credit  for  it,  or  perhaps  he 
was  ashamed  of  it.  He  had  made  the  sacrifice 
sincerely;  when  it  became  disagreeable,  he  gave 
it  up. 

The  Confirmation  took  place,  after  countless 
exhortations  in  the  dimly-lit  chancel,  and  a  long 
series  of  discourses  on  the  Passion  of  Christ  and 
self -mortification,  so  that  they  were  wrought  up 
to  a  most  exalted  mood.  After  the  catechising,  he 
scolded  his  friend  whom  he  had  seen  laughing. 

On  the  day  on  which  they  were  to  receive  the 
Holy  Communion,  the  senior  pastor  gave  a  dis- 
course. It  was  the  well-meaning  counsel  of  a 
shrewd  old  man  to  the  young;  it  was  cheering 
and  comforting,  and  did  not  contain  threats  or 
denunciations  of  past  sins.  Sometimes  during 
the  sermon  John  felt  the  words  fall  like  balm  on 
his  wounded  heart,  and  was  convinced  that  the 


First  Love  i8i 

old  man  was  right.  But  in  the  act  of  Communion, 
he  did  not  get  the  spiritual  impression  he  had 
hoped  for.  The  organ  played  and  the  choir  sang, 
"O  Lamb  of  God,  have  mercy  upon  us!"  The 
boys  and  giris  wept  and  half -fainted  as  though 
they  were  witnessing  an  execution.  But  John 
had  become  too  familiar  with  sacred  things  in  the 
parish-clerk's  school.  The  matter  seemed  to  him 
driven  to  the  verge  of  absurdity.  His  faith  was 
ripe  for  falling.     And  it  fell. 

He  now  wore  a  high  hat,  and  succeeded  to  his 
elder  brother's  cast-off  clothes.  Now  his  friend 
with  the  pince-nez  took  him  in  hand.  He  had 
not  deserted  him  during  his  pietistic  period.  He 
treated  the  matter  lightly  and  good-humouredly, 
with  a  certain  admiration  of  John's  asceticism  and 
firm  faith.  But  now  he  intervened.  He  took  him 
for  a  mid -day  walk,  pointed  out  by  name  the 
actors  they  saw  at  the  comer  of  the  Regeringsgata, 
and  the  officers  who  were  reviewing  the  troops. 
John  was  still  shy,  and  had  no  self-reliance. 

It  was  about  twelve  o'clock,  the  time  for 
going  to  the  gymnasium.  John's  friend  said, 
"Come  along!  we  will  have  lunch  in  the  'Three 
Cups.'" 


1 82  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

"  No, "  said  John,  "  we  ought  to  go  to  the  Greek 
class." 

"Ah!  we  will  dispense  with  Greek  to-day." 

It  would  be  the  first  time  he  cut  it,  thought 
John,  and  he  might  take  a  little  scolding  for  once. 
"But  I  have  no  money,"  he  said. 

"That  does  not  matter;  you  are  my  guest;" 
his  friend  seemed  hurt.  They  entered  the  restau- 
rant. An  appetising  odour  of  beefsteaks  greeted 
them ;  the  waiter  received  their  coats  and  hung  up 
their  hats. 

"Bring  the  bill  of  fare,  waiter,"  said  his  friend 
in  a  confident  tone,  for  he  was  accustomed  to  take 
his  meals  here.     "Will  you  have  beefsteak?" 

"  Yes, "  answered  John;  he  had  tasted  beefsteak 
only  twice  in  his  life. 

His  friend  ordered  butter,  cheese,  brandy  and 
beer,  and  without  asking,  filled  John's  glass  with 
brandy. 

"But  I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to,"  said 
John. 

"Have  you  never  drunk  it  before?" 

"No." 

"Oh,  well,  go  ahead!  it  tastes  good." 

He  drank.  Ah!  his  body  glowed,  his  eyes 
watered,  and  the  room  swam  in  a  light  mist;  but 


First  Love  183 

he  felt  an  access  of  strength,  his  thoughts  worked 
freely,  new  ideas  rose  in  his  mind,  and  the  gloomy 
past  seemed  brighter.  Then  came  the  juicy  beef- 
steak. That  was  something  like  eating!  His 
friend  ate  bread,  butter,  and  cheese  with  it.  John 
said,   "What  will  the  restaurant-keeper  say?" 

His  friend  laughed,  as  if  he  were  an  elderly 
uncle. 

"Eat  away;  the  bill  will  be  just  the  same." 

"But  butter  and  cheese  with  beef -steak !  That 
is  too  luxurious !  But  it  tastes  good  all  the  same. " 
John  felt  as  though  he  had  never  eaten  before. 
Then  he  drank  beer.  "Is  each  of  us  to  drink 
half  a  bottle?"  he  asked  his  friend.  "You  are 
really  mad!" 

But  at  any  rate  it  was  a  meal, — and  not  such 
an  empty  enjoyment  either,  as  anaemic  ascetics 
assert.  No,  it  is  a  real  enjoyment  to  feel  strong 
blood  flowing  into  one's  half-empty  veins,  strength- 
ening the  nerves  for  the  battle  of  life.  It  is  an 
enjoyment  to  feel  vanished  virile  strength  return, 
and  the  relaxed  sinews  of  almost  perished  will- 
power braced  up  again.  Hope  awoke,  and  the 
mist  in  the  room  became  a  rosy  cloud,  while  his 
friend  depicted  for  him  the  future  as  it  is  imagined 
by  youthful  friendship.     These  youthful  illusions 


184  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

about  life,  from  whence  do  they  come?  From 
superabundance  of  energy,  people  say.  But 
ordinary  intelligence,  which  has  seen  so  many 
childish  hopes  blighted,  ought  to  be  able  to  infer 
the  absurdity  of  expecting  a  realisation  of  the 
dreams  of  youth. 

John  had  not  learned  to  expect  from  life  any- 
thing more  than  freedom  from  tyranny  and  the 
means  of  existence.  That  would  be  enough  for 
him.  He  was  no  Aladdin  and  did  not  believe  in 
luck.  He  had  plenty  of  power,  but  did  not  know 
it.     His  friend  had  to  discover  him  to  himself. 

"You  should  come  and  amuse  yourself  with  us, " 
he  said,  "and  not  sit  in  a  comer  at  home. " 

"Yes,  but  that  costs  money,  and  I  don't  get 
any." 

"  Give  lessons. " 

"Lessons!  What?  Do  you  think  I  could  give 
lessons?" 

"You  know  a  lot.  You  would  not  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  get  pupils." 

He  knew  a  lot!  That  was  a  recognition  or  a 
piece  of  flattery,  as  the  pietists  call  it,  and  it  fell 
on  fertile  soil. 

"Yes,  but  I  have  no  acquaintances  or  connec- 
tions." 


First  Love  185 

"Tell  the  headmaster!     I  did  the  same!" 

John  hardly  dared  to  believe  that  he  could  get 
the  chance  of  earning  money.  But  he  felt  strange 
when  he  heard  that  others  could,  and  compared 
himself  with  them.  They  certainly  had  luck.  His 
friend  urged  him  on,  and  soon  he  obtained  a  post 
as  teacher  in  a  girls'  school. 

Now  his  self-esteem  awoke.  The  servants  at 
home  called  him  Mr.  John,  and  the  teachers  in  the 
school  addressed  the  class  as  "Gentlemen."  At 
the  same  time  he  altered  his  course  of  study  at 
school.  He  had  for  a  long  time,  but  in  vain,  asked 
his  father  to  let  him  give  up  Greek.  He  did  it  now 
on  his  own  responsibility,  and  his  father  first  heard 
of  it  at  the  examination.  In  its  place  he  sub- 
stituted mathematics,  after  he  had  learned  that 
a  Latin  scholar  had  the  right  to  dispense  with  a 
testamur  in  that  subject.  Moreover,  he  neglected 
Latin,  intending  to  revise  it  all  a  month  before  the 
examination.  During  the  lessons  he  read  French, 
German,  and  English  novels.  The  questions 
were  asked  each  pupil  in  turn,  and  he  sat  with 
his  book  in  his  hand  till  the  questions  came  and 
he  could  be  ready  for  them.  Modern  languages 
and  natural  science  were  now  his  special  subjects. 

Teaching  his  juniors  was  a  new  and  dangerous 


l86  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

retrograde  movement  for  him,  but  he  was  paid 
for  it.  Naturally,  the  boys  who  required  extra 
lessons  were  those  with  a  certain  dislike  of  learn- 
ing. It  was  hard  work  for  his  active  brain  to 
accommodate  himself  to  them.  They  were  im- 
possible pupils,  and  did  not  know  how  to  attend. 
He  thought  they  were  obstinate.  The  truth  was 
they  lacked  the  will-power  to  become  attentive. 
Such  boys  are  wrongly  regarded  as  stupid.  They 
are,  on  the  contrary,  wide  awake.  Their  thoughts 
are  concerned  with  realities,  and  they  seem  al- 
ready to  have  seen  through  the  absurdity  of  the 
subjects  they  are  taught.  Many  of  them  became 
useful  citizens  when  they  grew  up,  and  many  more 
would  have  become  so  if  they  had  not  been  com- 
pelled by  their  parents  to  do  violence  to  their 
natures  and  to  continue  their  studies. 

Now  ensued  a  new  conflict  with  his  lady  friend 
against  his  altered  demeanour.  She  warned  him 
against  his  other  friend  who,  she  said,  flattered 
him,  and  against  young  girls  of  whom  he  spoke 
enthusiastically.  She  was  jealous.  She  reminded 
him  of  Christ,  but  John  was  distracted  by  other 
subjects,  and  withdrew  from  her  society. 

He  now  led  an  active  and  enjoyable  life.  He 
took  part  in  evening  concerts,  sang  in  a  quartette, 


First  Love  187 

drank  punch,  and  flirted  moderately  with  wait- 
resses. All  this  time  religion  was  in  abeyance,  and 
only  a  weak  echo  of  piety  and  asceticism  re- 
mained. He  prayed  out  of  habit,  but  without 
hoping  for  an  answer,  since  he  had  so  long  sought 
the  divine  friendship  which  people  say  is  so  easily 
found,  if  one  but  knocks  lightly  at  the  door  of 
grace.  Truth  to  say,  he  was  not  very  anxious  to 
be  taken  at  his  word.  If  the  Crucified  had 
opened  the  door  and  bidden  him  enter,  he  would 
not  have  rejoiced.  His  flesh  was  too  young  and 
sound  to  wish  to  be  mortified. 


VIII 

THE    SPRING   THAW 

The  school  educates,  not  the  family.  The 
family  is  too  narrow ;  its  aims  are  too  petty,  sel- 
fish, and  anti-social.  In  the  case  of  a  second 
marriage,  such  abnormal  relations  are  set  up,  that 
the  only  justification  of  the  family  comes  to  an 
end.  The  children  of  a  deceased  mother  should 
simply  be  taken  away,  if  the  father  marries  again. 
This  would  best  conduce  to  the  interests  of  all 
parties,  not  least  to  those  of  the  father,  who  per- 
haps is  the  one  who  suffers  most  in  a  second 
marriage. 

In  the  family  there  is  only  one  (or  two)  ruling 
wills  without  appeal;  therefore  justice  is  im- 
possible. In  the  school,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
is  a  continual  watchful  jury,  which  rigorously 
judges  boys  as  well  as  teachers.  The  boys  be- 
come more  moral;  brutality  is  tamed;  social 
instincts  awaken ;  they  begin  to  see  that  individual 

I88 


THe  Spring  TKa^v  189 

interests  must  be  generally  furthered  by  means  of 
compromises.  There  cannot  be  tyranny,  for  there 
usually  are  enough  to  form  parties  and  to  revolt. 
A  teacher  who  is  badly  treated  by  a  pupil  can 
soonest  obtain  justice  by  appealing  to  the  other 
pupils.  Moreover,  about  this  time  there  was 
much  to  arouse  their  sympathy  in  great  universal 
interests. 

During  the  Danish- German  War  of  1864  a 
fund  was  raised  in  the  school  for  the  purchase  of 
war- telegrams.  These  were  fastened  on  the  black- 
board and  read  with  great  interest  by  both  teachers 
and  pupils.  They  gave  rise  to  familiar  talks  and 
reflections  on  the  part  of  the  teachers  regarding  the 
origin  and  cause  of  the  war.  They  were  naturally 
all  one-sidedly  Scandinavian,  and  the  question 
was  judged  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  students' 
union.  Seeds  of  hatred  towards  Russia  and 
Germany  for  some  future  war  were  sown,  and 
at  the  burial  of  the  popular  teacher  of  gymnastics, 
Lieutenant  Betzholtz,  this  reached  a  fanatical 
pitch. 

The  year  of  the  Reform  Bill,  ^  1865,  approached. 
The  teacher  of  history,  a  man  of  kindliness  and 
fine  feeling,  and  an  aristocrat  of  high  birth,  tried 

'See  Encyclopcedia  Britannica,  art.  "Sweden." 


190  XHe  Son  of  a  Servant 

to  interest  the  pupils  in  the  subject.  The  class 
had  divided  into  opposite  parties,  and  the  son  of 
a  speaker  in  the  Upper  House,  a  Count  S.,  uni- 
versally popular,  was  the  chief  of  the  opposition 
against  reform.  He  was  sprung  from  an  old 
German  family  of  knightly  descent;  was  poor,  and 
lived  on  familiar  terms  with  his  classmates,  but 
had  a  keen  consciousness  of  his  high  birth. 
Battles  more  in  sport  than  in  earnest  took  place 
in  the  class,  and  tables  and  forms  were  thrown 
about  indiscriminately. 

The  Reform  Bill  passed.  Count  S.  remained 
away  from  the  class.  The  history  teacher  spoke 
with  emotion  of  the  sacrifice  which  the  nobility 
had  laid  upon  the  altar  of  the  fatherland  by 
renouncing  their  privileges.  The  good  man  did 
not  know  yet  that  privileges  are  not  rights, 
but  advantages  which  have  been  seized  and  which 
can  be  recovered  like  other  property,  even  by 
illegal  means. 

The  teacher  bade  the  class  to  be  modest  over 
their  victory  and  not  to  insult  the  defeated  party. 
The  young  count  on  his  return  to  the  class  was 
received  with  elaborate  courtesy,  but  his  feelings 
so  overcame  him  at  the  sight  of  the  involuntary 
elevation  of  so  many  pupils  of  humble  birth,  that 


The  Spring  TKaw  191 

he  burst  into  tears  and  had  to  leave  the  class 
again. 

John  understood  nothing  of  politics.  As  a 
topic  of  general  interest,  they  were  naturally- 
banished  from  family  discussions,  where  only 
topics  of  private  interest  were  regarded,  and  that 
in  a  very  one-sided  way.  Sons  were  so  brought 
up  that  they  might  remain  sons  their  whole  lives 
long,  without  any  regard  to  the  fact  that  some 
day  they  might  be  fathers.  But  John  already 
possessed  the  lower-class  instinct  which  told  him, 
with  regard  to  the  Reform  Bill,  that  now  an 
injustice  had  been  done  away  with,  and  that  the 
higher  scale  had  been  lowered,  in  order  that  it 
might  be  easier  for  the  lower  one  to  rise  to  the 
same  level.  He  was,  as  might  be  expected,  a 
liberal,  but  since  the  king  was  a  liberal,  he  was  also 
a  royalist. 

Parallel  with  the  strong  reactionary  stream  of 
pietism  ran  that  of  the  new  rationalism,  but  in  the 
opposite  direction.  Christianity,  which,  at  the 
close  of  the  preceding  century,  had  been  declared 
to  be  mythical,  was  again  received  into  favour, 
and  as  it  enjoyed  State  protection,  the  liberals 
could  not  prevent  themselves  being  reinoculated 
by  its  teaching.     But  in  1835  Strauss's  Life  of 


192  THo  Son  of  a  Servant 

Christ  had  made  a  new  breach,  and  even  in  Sweden 
fresh  water  trickled  into  the  stagnant  streams. 
The  book  was  made  the  subject  of  legal  action, 
but  upon  it  as  a  foundation  the  whole  work  of  the 
new  reformation  was  built  up  by  self-appointed 
reformers,  as  is  always  the  case. 

Pastor  Cramer  had  the  honour  of  being  the 
first.  As  early  as  1859  he  published  his  Farewell 
to  the  Church,  a  popular  but  scientific  criticism  of 
the  New  Testament.  He  set  the  seal  of  sincerity 
on  his  belief  by  seceding  from  the  State  Church 
and  resigning  his  office.  His  book  produced  a 
great  effect,  and  although  Ingell's  writings  had 
more  vogue  among  the  theologians,  they  did  not 
reach  the  younger  generation.  In  the  same  year 
appeared  Rydberg's  The  Last  Athenian.  The 
influence  of  this  book  was  hindered  by  the  fact 
that  it  was  hailed  as  a  literary  success,  and  trans- 
planted to  the  neutral  territory  of  belles-lettres. 
Ryllberg's  The  Bible  Doctrine  of  Christ  made  a 
deeper  impression.  Renan's  Life  of  Jesus  in 
Ignell's  translation  had  taken  young  and  old 
by  storm,  and  was  read  in  the  schools  along  with 
Cramer,  which  was  not  the  case  with  The  Bible 
Doctrine  of  Christ.  And  by  Bostrom's  attack  on 
the  Doctrine  of  Hell  (1864),  the  door  was  opened 


TKe  Spring'  TKa-w  193 

to  rationalism  or  "  free- thought, "  as  it  was  called. 

Bostrom's  really  insignificant  work  had  a  great 

effect,  because  of  his  fame  as  a  Professor  at  Upsala 

and  former  teacher  in  the  Royal  Family.     The 

courageous   man   risked   his   reputation,    a   risk 

which  no  one  incurred  after  him,  when  it  was  no 

longer  considered  an  honour  to  be  a  free-thinker 

or  to  labour  for  the  freedom  and  the  right  of 

thinking. 

In  short,  everything  was  in  train,  and  it  needed 

only  a  breath  to  blow  down  John's  faith  like  a 

house  of  cards.     A  young  engineer  crossed  his 

path.     He  was  a  lodger  in  the  house  of  John's 

female  friend.     He  watched  John  a  long  while 

before  he  made  any  approaches.     John  felt  respect 

for  him,  for  he  had  a  good  head,  and  was  also 

somewhat  jealous.     John's  friend  prepared  him 

for  the  acquaintance  he  was  likely  to  make,  and 

at   the   same   time   warned   him.     She   said   the 

engineer  was  an  interesting  man  of  great  ability, 

but  dangerous.     It  was  not  long  before  John  met 

him.      He  hailed  from  Wermland,  was  strongly 

built,  with  coarse,  honest  features,  and  a  childlike 

laugh,  when  he  did  laugh,  which  occurred  rarely. 

They  were   soon   on  familiar  terms.     The  first 

evening  only  a  slight  skirmish  took  place  on  the 
13 


194  The  Son  of  a  Servant 

question  of  faith  and  knowledge.  "Faith  must 
kill  reason,"  said  John  (echoing  Krummacher). 
"No,"  replied  his  friend.  "Reason  is  a  divine 
gift,  which  raises  man  above  the  brutes.  Shall 
man  lower  himself  to  the  level  of  the  brutes  by 
throwing  away  this  divine  gift?" 

"There  are  things,"  said  John  (echoing  Nor- 
beck),  "which  we  can  very  well  believe,  without 
demanding  a  proof  for  them.  We  believe  the 
calendar,  for  example,  without  possessing  a  scien- 
tific knowledge  of  the  movement  of  the  planets. " 

"Yes,"  answered  his  friend,  "we  believe  it, 
because  our  reason  does  not  revolt  against  it." 

"But,"  said  John,  "in  Galileo's  time  they  re- 
volted against  the  idea  that  the  earth  revolves 
round  the  sun.  'He  is  possessed  by  a  spirit  of 
contradiction,'  they  said,  'and  wishes  to  be  thought 
original.'  " 

"We  don't  live  in  Galileo's  age,"  returned  his 
friend,  "and  the  enlightened  reason  of  our  time 
rejects  the  Deity  of  Christ  and  everlasting 
punishment. " 

"We  won't  dispute  about  these  things,"  said 
John. 

"Why  not?" 

"They  are  out  of  the  reach  of  reason." 


THe  Spring  TKa-w  195 

"Just  what  I  said  two  years  ago  when  I  was  a 
behever. " 

"You  have  been  a  pietist?" 

"Yes." 

"Hm!  and  now  you  have  peace?" 

"Yes,  I  have  peace." 

"How  is  that?" 

"I  learned  through  a  preacher  to  realise  the 
spirit  of  true  Christianity." 

"You  are  a  Christian  then?" 

"Yes,  I  acknowledge  Christ." 

"But  you  don't  believe  that  he  was  God?" 

"He  never  said  so  himself.  He  called  himself 
God's  son,  and  we  are  all  God's  sons." 

John's  lady  friend  interrupted  the  conversation, 
which  was  a  type  of  many  others  in  the  year  1865. 
John's  curiosity  was  aroused.  There  were  then, 
he  said  to  himself,  men  who  did  not  believe  in  Christ 
and  yet  had  peace.  Mere  criticism  would  not 
have  disturbed  his  old  ideas  of  God;  the  "horror 
vacui"  held  him  back,  till  Theodore  Parker  fell 
into  his  hands.  Sermons  without  Christ  and  hell 
were  what  he  wanted.  And  fine  sermons  they 
were.  It  must  be  confessed  that  he  read  them 
in  extreme  haste,  as  he  was  anxious  that  his  friends 
and  relatives  should  enjoy  them  that  he  might 


196  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

escape  their  censures.  He  could  not  distinguish 
between  the  disapproval  of  others  and  his  own 
bad  conscience,  and  was  so  accustomed  to  con- 
sider others  right  that  he  fell  into  conflict  with 
himself. 

But  in  his  mind  the  doctrine  of  Christ  the  Judge, 
the  election  of  grace,  the  punishments  of  the  last 
day,  all  collapsed,  as  though  they  had  been  totter- 
ing for  a  long  time.  He  was  astonished  at  the 
rapidity  of  their  disappearance.  It  was  as  though 
he  laid  aside  clothes  he  had  outgrown  and  put  on 
new  ones. 

One  Sunday  morning  he  went  with  the  engineer 
to  the  Haga  Park.  It  was  spring.  The  hazel 
bushes  were  in  bloom,  and  the  anemones  were 
opening.  The  weather  was  fairly  clear,  the  air 
soft  and  mild  after  a  night's  rain.  He  and  his 
friend  discussed  the  freedom  of  the  will.  The 
pietists  had  a  very  wavering  conception  of  the 
matter.  No  one  had,  they  said,  the  power  to  be- 
come a  child  of  God  of  his  own  free  will.  The  Holy 
Spirit  must  seek  one,  and  thus  it  was  a  matter  of 
predestination.  John  wished  to  be  converted  but 
he  could  not.  He  had  learned  to  pray,  "Lord, 
create  in  me  a  new  will."  But  how  could  he  be 
held  responsible  for  his  evil  will?     Yes,  he  could, 


THe  Spring  TKa"w  197 

answered  the  pietist,  through  the  Fall,  for  when 
man  endowed  with  free  will  chose  the  evil,  his 
posterity  inherited  his  evil  will,  which  became 
perpetually  evil  and  ceased  to  be  free.  Man 
could  be  delivered  from  this  evil  will  only  through 
Christ  and  the  gracious  work  of  the  Holy  Spirit. 
The  New  Birth,  however,  did  not  depend  upon  his 
own  will,  but  on  the  grace  of  God.  Thus  he  was 
not  free  and  at  the  same  time  was  responsible! 
Therein  lay  the  false  inference. 

Both  the  engineer  and  John  were  nature  wor- 
shippers. What  is  this  nature  worship  which  in 
our  days  is  regarded  as  so  hostile  to  culture?  A 
relapse  into  barbarism,  say  some;  a  healthy  re- 
action against  over-culture,  say  others.  When  a 
man  has  discovered  society  to  be  an  institution 
based  on  error  and  injustice,  when  he  perceives 
that,  in  exchange  for  petty  advantages  society 
suppresses  too  forcibly  every  natural  impulse  and 
desire,  when  he  has  seen  through  the  illusion  that 
he  is  a  demi-god  and  a  child  of  God,  and  regards 
himself  more  as  a  kind  of  animal — then  he  flees 
from  society,  which  is  built  on  the  assumption  of 
the  divine  origin  of  man,  and  takes  refuge  with 
nature.  Here  he  feels  in  his  proper  environment  as 
an  animal,  sees  himself  as  a  detail  in  the  picture, 


198  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

and  beholds  his  origin — the  earth  and  the  meadow. 
He  sees  the  interdependence  of  all  creation  as  if  in 
a  summary — the  mountains  becoming  earth,  the 
sea  becoming  rain,  the  plain  which  is  a  mountain 
crumbled,  the  woods  which  are  the  children  of  the 
mountains  and  the  water.  He  sees  the  ocean  of 
air  which  man  and  all  creatures  breathe,  he  hears 
the  birds  which  live  on  the  insects,  he  sees  the  in- 
sects which  fertilise  the  plants,  he  sees  the  mam- 
malia which  supply  man  with  nourishment,  and 
he  feels  at  home.  And  in  our  time,  when  all 
things  are  seen  from  the  scientific  point  of  view, 
a  lonely  hour  with  nature,  where  we  can  see  the 
whole  evolution-history  in  living  pictures,  can  be 
the  only  substitute  for  divine  worship. 

But  our  optimistic  evolutionists  prefer  a  meet- 
ing in  a  large  hall  where  they  can  launch  their 
denimciations  against  this  same  society  which 
they  admire  and  despise.  They  praise  it  as  the 
highest  stage  of  development,  but  wish  to  over- 
throw it,  because  it  is  irreconcilable  with  the  true 
happiness  of  the  animal.  They  wish  to  recon- 
struct and  develop  it,  say  some.  But  their  recon- 
struction involves  the  destruction  of  all  existing 
arrangements.  Do  not  these  people  recognise 
that  society  as  it  exists  is  a  case  of  miscarriage  in 


THe  Spring  THa-w  199 

evolution,  and  is  itself  simultaneously  hostile  to 
culture  and  to  nature? 

Society,  like  everything  else,  is  a  natural  pro- 
duct, they  say,  and  civilisation  is  nature.  Yes, 
but  it  is  degenerate  nature,  nature  on  the  down- 
grade, since  it  works  against  its  own  object — 
happiness.  It  was,  however,  the  engineer,  John's 
leader,  and  a  nature-worshipper  like  himself,  who 
revealed  to  him  the  defects  of  civilised  society, 
and  prepared  the  way  for  his  reception  of  the  new 
views  of  man's  origin.  Darwin's  Origin  of  Species 
had  appeared  as  early  as  1859,  but  its  influence  had 
not  yet  penetrated  far,  much  less  had  it  been  able 
to  fertilise  other  minds.  ^  Moleschott's  influence 
was  then  in  the  ascendant,  and  materialism  was 
the  watchword  of  the  day.  Armed  with  this 
and  with  his  geology,  the  engineer  pulled  to  pieces 
the  Mosaic  story  of  the  Creation.  He  still  spoke 
of  the  Creator,  for  he  was  a  theist  and  saw  God's 
wisdom  and  goodness  reflected  in  His  works. 

While  they  were  walking  in  the  park,  the  church 
bells  in  the  city  began  to  ring.  John  stood  still 
and  listened.     There  were  the  terrible  bells  of  the 

'In  igioStrindberg  wrote:  "I  keep  my  Bible  Christianity  for 
private  use,  to  tame  my  somewhat  barbarised  nature — barbarised 
by  the  veterinary  philosophy  of  Darwinism,  in  which,  as  a  student. 
I  was  educated. " — Tal  till  Svenska  nationen. 


200  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

Clara  Church,  which  rang  through  his  melancholy 
childhood;  the  bells  of  the  Adolf-Fredrik,  which 
had  frightened  him  to  the  bleeding  breast  of  the 
Crucified,  and  the  bells  of  St.  John's,  which,  on 
Saturdays,  when  he  was  in  the  Jacob  School,  had 
announced  the  end  of  the  week.  A  gentle  south 
wind  bore  the  sound  of  the  bells  thither  from  the 
city,  and  it  echoed  like  a  warning  under  the  high 
firs. 

"Are  you  going  to  church?"  asked  his  friend. 

"No,"  answered  John,  "I  am  not  going  to 
church  any  more." 

"Follow  your  conscience,"  said  the  engineer. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  John  had  remained 
away  from  church.  He  determined  to  defy  his 
father's  command  and  his  own  conscience.  He 
got  excited,  inveighed  against  religion  and  do- 
mestic tyranny,  and  talked  of  the  church  of  God 
in  nature;  he  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  the  new 
gospel  which  proclaimed  salvation,  happiness,  and 
life  to  all.     But  suddenly  he  became  silent. 

"You  have  a  bad  conscience,"  said  his  friend. 
"Yes,"  answered  John;  "one  should  either  not 
do  what  one  repents  of,  or  not  repent  of  what 
one  does. " 

"The  latter  is  the  better  course." 


TKe  Spring  THa-w  201 

"But  I  repent  all  the  same.  I  repent  a  good 
deed,  for  it  would  be  wrong  to  play  the  hypocrite 
in  this  old  idol-temple.  My  new  conscience  tells 
me  that  I  am  wrong.     I  can  find  no  more  peace. " 

And  that  was  true.  His  new  ego  revolted 
against  this  old  one,  and  they  lived  in  discord,  like 
an  unhappy  married  couple,  during  the  whole 
of  his  later  life,  without  being  able  to  get  a 
separation. 

The  reaction  in  his  mind  against  his  old  views, 
which  he  felt  should  be  eradicated,  broke  out 
violently.  The  fear  of  hell  had  disappeared, 
renunciation  seemed  silly,  and  the  youth's  nature 
demanded  its  rights.  The  result  was  a  new  code 
of  morality,  which  he  formulated  for  himself  in 
the  following  fashion :  What  does  not  hurt  any  of 
my  fellow-men  is  permitted  to  me.  He  felt  that 
the  domestic  pressure  at  home  did  him  harm,  and 
no  one  else  any  good,  and  revolted  against  it. 
He  now  showed  his  real  feelings  to  his  parents, 
who  had  never  shown  him  love,  but  insisted  on  his 
being  grateful,  because  they  had  given  him  his 
legal  rights  as  a  matter  of  favour,  and  accom- 
panied by  humiliations.  They  were  antipathetic 
to  him,  and  he  was  cold  to  them.  To  their  cease- 
less attacks  on  free-thinking  he  gave  frank  and 


202  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

perhaps  somewhat  impertinent  answers.  His 
half-annihilated  will  began  to  stir,  and  he  saw  that 
he  was  entitled  to  make  demands  of  life. 

The  engineer  was  regarded  as  John's  seducer, 
and  was  anathematised.  But  he  was  open  to  the 
influence  of  John's  lady  friend,  who  had  formed 
a  friendship  with  his  step-mother.  The  engineer 
was  not  of  a  radical  turn  of  mind ;  he  had  accepted 
Theodore  Parker's  compromise,  and  still  believed 
in  Christian  self-denial.  One  should,  he  said,  be 
amiable  and  patient,  follow  Christ's  example,  and 
so  forth.  Urged  on  by  John's  lady  friend,  for 
whom  he  had  a  concealed  tenderness,  and  alarmed 
by  the  consequences  of  his  own  teaching,  he  wrote 
John  the  following  letter.  It  was  inspired  by 
fear  of  the  fire  which  he  had  kindled,  by  regard  for 
the  lady,  and  by  sincere  conviction: 

"To  MY  FRIEND  JOHN, — How  joyfully  we  greet 
the  spring  when  it  appears,  to  intoxicate  us  with 
its  wealth  of  verdure  and  its  divine  freshness! 
The  birds  begin  their  light  and  cheerful  melodies, 
and  the  anemones  peep  shyly  forth  under  the 
whispering  branches  of  the  pines " 

"It  is  strange,"  thought  John,  "that  this 
unsophisticated  man,   who  talks  so  simply  and 


TKe  Spring  THa-w  203 

sincerely,  should  write  in  such  a  stilted  style.  It 
rings  false." 

The  letter  continued:  "What  breast,  whether 
old  or  young,  does  not  expand  in  order  to  inhale 
the  fresh  perfumes  of  the  spring,  which  spread 
heavenly  peace  in  each  heart,  accompanied 
by  a  longing  which  seems  like  a  foretaste  of  God 
and  of  His  love?  At  such  a  time  can  any  malice 
remain  in  our  hearts?  Can  we  not  forgive?  Ah 
yes,  we  must,  when  we  see  how  the  caressing  rays 
of  the  spring  sun  have  kissed  away  the  icy  cover 
from  nature  and  our  hearts.  Just  as  we  expect 
to  see  the  ground,  freed  from  snow,  grow  green 
again,  so  we  long  to  see  the  warmth  of  a  kindly 
heart  manifest  itself  in  loving  deeds,  and  peace 
and  happiness  spread  through  all  nature " 

"Forgive?"  thought  John.  "Yes,  certainly 
he  would,  if  they  would  only  alter  their  behaviour 
and  let  him  be  free.  But  they  did  not  forgive  him. 
With  what  right  did  they  demand  forbearance  on 
his  part?     It  must  be  mutual. " 

"John,"  went  on  the  letter,  "you  think  you 
have  attained  to  a  higher  conception  of  God 
through  the  study  of  nature  and  through  reason 
than  when  you  believed  in  the  Deity  of  Christ  and 
the  Bible,  but  you  do  not  realise  the  tendency   of 


204  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

your  own  thoughts.  You  think  that  a  true 
thought  can  of  itself  ennoble  a  man,  but  in  your 
better  moments  you  see  that  it  cannot.  You 
have  only  grasped  the  shadow  which  the  light 
throws,  but  not  the  chief  matter,  not  the  light 
itself.  When  you  held  your  former  views  you 
could  pass  over  a  fault  in  one  of  your  fellow-men, 
you  could  take  a  charitable  view  of  an  action  in 
spite  of  appearances,  but  how  is  it  with  you  now? 
You  are  violent  and  bitter  against  a  loving  mother ; 
you  condemn  and  are  discontented  with  the  actions 
of  a  tender,  experienced,  grey-headed  father " 

(As  a  matter  of  fact,  when  he  held  his  former 
views,  John  could  not  pardon  a  fault  in  anyone, 
least  of  all  in  himself.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  did 
pardon  others;  but  that  was  stupid,  that  was  lax 
morality.  A  loving  mother,  forsooth!  Yes,  very 
loving!  How  did  his  friend  Axel  come  to  think 
so?  And  a  tender  father?  But  why  should  he 
not  judge  his  actions?  In  self-defence  one  must 
meet  hardness  with  hardness,  and  no  more  turn 
the  left  cheek  when  the  right  cheek  is  smitten.) 

"Formerly  you  were  an  unassuming,  amiable 
child,  but  now  you  are  an  egotistical,  conceited 
youth " 

("Unassuming!"     Yes,  and  that  was  why  he 


TKe  Spring'  THaw  205 

had  been  trampled  down,  but  now  he  was 
going  to  assert  his  just  claims.  "Conceited!" 
Ha!  the  teacher  felt  himself  outstripped  by  his 
ungrateful  pupil.) 

"The  warm  tears  of  your  mother  flow  over  her 
cheeks " 

("Mother!"  he  had  no  mother,  and  his  step- 
mother only  cried  when  she  was  angry !     Who  the 
deuce  had  composed  the  letter?) 
" — when  she  thinks  in  solitude  about  your  hard 
heart " 

(What  the  dickens  has  she  to  do  with  my  heart 
when  she  has  the  housekeeping  and  seven  children 
to  look  after?) 
" — your  unhappy  spiritual  condition *' 

(That's  humbug!  My  soul  has  never  felt  so 
fresh  and  lively  as  now.) 

" — and  your  father's  heart  is  nearly  breaking 
with    grief    and    anxiety " 

(That 's  a  lie.  He  is  himself  a  theist  and  follows 
Wallin ;  besides,  he  has  no  time  to  think  about  me. 
He  knows  that  I  am  industrious  and  honest,  and 
not  immoral.  Indeed,  he  praised  me  only  a  day 
or  two  ago.) 

"You  do  not  notice  your  mother's  sad 
looks " 


2o6  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

(There  are  other  reasons  for  that,  for  her  mar- 
riage is  not  a  happy  one.) 

" — nor  do  you  regard  the  loving  warnings  of  your 
father.  You  are  Hke  a  crevasse  above  the  snow- 
line, in  which  the  kiss  of  the  spring  sun  cannot 
melt  the  snow,  nor  turn  a  single  atom  of  ice  into 
a  drop  of  water " 

(The  writer  must  have  been  reading  romances. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  John  was  generally  yielding 
towards  his  school-fellows.  But  towards  his  do- 
mestic enemies  he  had  become  cold.  That  was 
their  faiilt.) 

"What  can  your  friends  think  of  your  new 
religion,  when  it  produces  such  evil  fruit?  They 
will  curse  it,  and  your  views  give  them  the  right 
to  do  so " 

(Not  the  right,  but  the  occasion.) 

"They  will  hate  the  mean  scoundrel  who  has 
instilled  the  hellish  poison  of  his  teaching  into 
your  innocent  heart " 

(There  we  have  it!  The  mean  scoun- 
drel!) 

"Show  now  by  your  actions  that  you  have 
grasped  the  truth  better  than  heretofore.  Try  to 
be  forbearing " 

(That 's  the  step-mother!) 


THe  Spring  TKa-w  207 


((- 


'Pass  over  the  defects  and  failings  of  your 
fellow-men  with  love  and  gentleness " 

(No,  he  would  not !  They  had  tortured  him  into 
lying;  they  had  snuffed  about  in  his  soul,  and 
uprooted  good  seeds  as  though  they  were  weeds; 
they  wished  to  stifle  his  personality,  which  had 
just  as  good  a  right  to  exist  as  their  own;  they 
had  never  been  forbearing  with  his  faults,  why 
should  he  be  so  with  theirs?  Because  Christ  had 
said.  .  .  .  That  had  become  a  matter  of  com- 
plete indifference,  and  had  no  application  to 
him  now.  For  the  rest,  he  did  not  bother  about 
those  at  home,  but  shut  himself  up  in  himself. 
They  were  unsympathetic  to  him,  and  could  not 
obtain  his  sympathy.  That  was  the  whole  thing 
in  a  nutshell.  They  had  faults  and  wanted  him  to 
pardon  them.  Very  well,  he  did  so,  if  they  would 
only  leave  him  in  peace !) 

"Learn  to  be  grateful  to  your  parents,  who 
spare  no  pains  in  promoting  your  true  welfare  and 
happiness  (hm!),  and  that  this  may  be  brought 
about  through  love  to  God  your  Creator,  who  has 
caused  you  to  be  born  in  this  improving  (hm !  hm !) 
environment,  for  obtaining  peace  and  blessed- 
ness is  the  prayer  of  your  anxious  but  hopeful 

"Axel." 


2o8  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

"I  have  had  enough  of  father  confessors  and 
inquisitors,"  thought  John;  he  had  escaped  and 
felt  himself  free.  They  stretched  their  claws 
after  him,  but  he  was  beyond  their  reach.  His 
friend's  letter  was  insincere  and  artificial;  "the 
hands  were  the  hands  of  Esau. "  He  returned  no 
answer  to  it,  but  broke  off  all  intercourse  with  both 
his  friends. 

They  called  him  ungrateful.  A  person  who 
insists  on  gratitude  is  worse  than  a  creditor,  for 
he  first  makes  a  present  on  which  he  plumes  him- 
self, and  then  sends  in  the  account — an  account 
which  can  never  be  paid,  for  a  service  done  in  re- 
turn does  not  seem  to  extinguish  the  debt  of 
gratitude;  it  is  a  mortgage  on  a  man's  soul,  a  debt 
which  cannot  be  paid,  and  which  stretches  over 
the  whole  subsequent  life.  Accept  a  service  from 
your  friend,  and  he  will  expect  you  to  falsify  your 
opinion  of  him  and  to  praise  his  own  evil  deeds, 
and  those  of  his  wife  and  children. 

But  gratitude  is  a  deep  feeling  which  honours 
a  man  and  at  the  same  time  humiliates  him. 
Would  that  a  time  may  come  when  it  will  not  be 
necessary  to  fetter  ourselves  with  gratitude  for  a 
benefit,  which  perhaps  is  a  mere  duty. 

John  felt  ashamed  of  the  breach  with  his  friends. 


THe  Spring  TKa-w  209 

but  they  hindered  and  oppressed  him.  After  all, 
what  had  they  given  him  in  social  intercoiirse 
which  he  had  not  given  back? 

Fritz,  as  his  friend  with  the  pince-nez  was  called, 
was  a  prudent  man  of  the  world.  These  two 
epithets  "prudent"  and  "man  of  the  world"  had 
a  bad  significance  at  that  time.  To  be  prudent  in 
a  romantic  period,  when  all  were  a  little  cracked, 
and  to  be  cracked  was  considered  a  mark  of  the 
upper  classes,  was  almost  synonymous  with  being 
bad.  To  be  a  man  of  the  world  when  all  at- 
tempted, as  well  as  they  could,  to  deceive  themselves 
in  religion,  was  considered  still  worse.  Fritz  was 
prudent.  He  wished  to  lead  his  own  life  in  a 
pleasant  way  and  to  make  a  career  for  himself. 
He  therefore  sought  the  acquaintance  of  those  in 
good  social  position.  That  was  prudent,  because 
they  had  power  and  money.  Why  should  he  not 
seek  them?  How  did  he  come  to  make  friends 
with  John?  Perhaps  through  a  sort  of  animal  sym- 
pathy, perhaps  through  long  habit.  John  could 
not  do  any  special  service  for  him  except  to  whisper 
answers  to  him  in  the  class  and  to  lend  him  books. 
For  Fritz  did  not  learn  his  lessons,  and  spent  in 
punch  the  money  which  was  intended  for  books. 

Now  when  he  saw  that   John  was  inwardly 
14 


2IO  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

purified,  and  that  his  outer  man  was  presentable, 
he  introduced  him  to  his  own  coterie.  This  was  a 
little  circle  of  young  fellows,  some  of  them  rich 
and  some  of  them  of  good  rank  belonging  to  the 
same  class  as  John.  The  latter  was  a  little  shy  at 
first,  but  soon  stood  on  a  good  footing  with  them. 
One  day,  at  drill  time,  Fritz  told  him  that  he  had 
been  invited  to  a  ball. 

"  I  to  a  ball?  Are  you  mad?  I  would  certainly 
be  out  of  place  there. " 

"You  are  a  good-looking  fellow,  and  will  have 
luck  with  the  girls." 

Hm !  That  was  a  new  point  of  view  with  regard 
to  himself.  Should  he  go?  What  would  they  say 
at  home,  where  he  got  nothing  but  blame? 

He  went  to  the  ball.  It  was  in  a  middle-class 
house.  Some  of  the  girls  were  anaemic;  others 
red  as  berries.  John  liked  best  the  pale  ones  who 
had  black  or  blue  rings  round  their  eyes.  They 
looked  so  suffering  and  pining,  and  cast  yearning 
glances  towards  him.  There  was  one  among  them 
deathly  pale,  whose  dark  eyes  were  deep-set  and 
burning,  and  whose  lips  were  so  dark  that  her 
mouth  looked  almost  like  a  black  streak.  She 
made  an  impression  on  him,  but  he  did  not  venture 
to  approach  her,  as  she  already  had  an  admirer. 


TKe  Spring  THa-w  211 

So  he  satisfied  himself  with  a  less  dazzling,  softer, 
and  gentler  girl.  He  felt  quite  comfortable  at  the 
ball  and  in  intercourse  with  strangers,  without 
seeing  the  critical  eyes  of  any  relative.  But  he 
found  it  very  difficult  to  talk  with  the  girls. 

"What  shall  I  say  to  them?"  he  asked  Fritz. 

"Can't  you  talk  nonsense  with  them?  Say 
'It  is  fine  weather.  Do  you  like  dancing?  Do 
you  skate?'     One  must  learn  to  be  versatile." 

John  went  and  soon  exhausted  his  repertoire  of 
conversation.  His  palate  became  dry,  and  at  the 
third  dance  he  got  tired  of  it.  He  felt  in  a  rage 
with  himself  and  was  silent. 

"Isn't  dancing  amusing  ? ' '  asked  Fritz.  * '  Cheer 
up,  old  coffin-polisher!" 

"Yes,  dancing  is  all  right,  if  one  only  had  not  to 
talk.     I  don't  know  what  to  say." 

So  it  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  He  liked  the 
girls,  and  dancing  with  them  seemed  manly,  but  as 
to  talking  with  them! — he  felt  as  though  he  were 
dealing  with  another  kind  of  the  species  Homo,  in 
some  cases  a  higher  one,  in  others  a  lower.  He 
secretly  admired  his  gentle  little  partner,  and 
would  have  liked  her  for  a  wife. 

His  fondness  for  reflection  and  his  everlasting 
criticism  of  his  thoughts  had  robbed  him  of  the 


212  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

power  of  being  simple  and  direct.  When  he  talked 
with  a  girl,  he  heard  his  own  voice  and  words  and 
criticised  them.  This  made  the  whole  ball  seem 
tedious.  And  then  the  girls?  What  was  it 
really  that  they  lacked?  They  had  the  same 
education  as  himself;  they  learned  history  and 
modern  languages,  read  Icelandic,  studied  algebra, 
etc.  They  had  accordingly  the  same  culture,  and 
yet  he  could  not  talk  with  them. 

"Well,  talk  nonsense  with  them,"  said  Fritz. 

But  he  could  not.  Besides,  he  had  a  higher 
opinion  of  them.  He  wanted  to  give  up  the  balls 
altogether,  since  he  had  no  success,  but  he  was 
taken  there  in  spite  of  himself.  It  flattered  him 
to  be  invited,  and  flattery  has  always  something 
pleasant  about  it.  One  day  he  was  paying  a  visit 
to  an  aristocratic  family.  The  son  of  the  house 
was  a  cadet.  Here  he  met  two  actresses.  With 
them  he  felt  he  could  speak.  They  danced  with 
him  but  did  not  answer  him.  So  he  listened  to 
Fritz's  conversation.  The  latter  said  strange 
things  in  elegant  phrases,  and  the  girls  were 
delighted  with  him.  That,  then,  was  the  way  to 
get  on  with  them ! 

The  balls  were  followed  by  serenades  and 
"punch  evenings."     John  had  a  great  longing  for 


TKe  Spring  TKa-w  213 

strong  drinks;  they  seemed  to  him  like  concen- 
trated liquid  nourishment.  The  first  time  he  was 
intoxicated  was  at  a  students'  supper  at  Djur- 
g°rdsbrunn.  He  felt  happy,  joyful,  strong,  and 
mild,  but  far  from  mad.  He  talked  nonsense,  saw 
pictures  on  the  plates  and  made  jokes.  This 
behaviour  made  him  for  the  moment  like  his 
elder  brother,  who,  though  deeply  melancholy  in 
his  youth,  had  a  certain  reputation  afterwards 
as  a  comic  actor.  They  had  both  played  at  acting 
in  the  attic;  but  John  was  embarrassed;  he  acted 
badly  and  was  only  successful  when  he  was  given 
the  part  of  some  high  personage  to  play.  As  a 
comic  actor  he  was  impossible. 

About  this  time  there  entered  two  new  factors 
into  his  development — Art  and  Literature. 

John  had  found  in  his  father's  bookcase  Len- 
strom's  Esthetics,  Boije's  Dictionary  of  Painters, 
and  Oulibischefif's  Life  of  Mozart,  besides  the 
authors  previously  mentioned.  Through  the  scat- 
tering of  the  family  of  a  deceased  relative,  a 
large  number  of  books  came  into  the  house, 
which  increased  John's  knowledge  of  belles-lettres. 
Among  them  were  several  copies  of  Talis  Qualis's 
poems,  which  he  did  not  enjoy;  he  found  no  plea- 
sure in  Strandberg's  translation  of  Byron's  Don 


214  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

Juan,  for  he  hated  descriptive  poetry;  he  always 
skipped  verse  quotations  when  they  occurred  in 
books.  Tasso's  Jerusalem  Delivered,  in  Kullberg's 
translation,  he  found  tedious;  Karl  von  Zeipel's 
Tales,  impossible.  Sir  Walter  Scott's  novels  were 
too  long,  especially  the  descriptions.  He  there- 
fore did  not  understand  at  first  the  greatness  of 
Zola,  when  many  years  later  he  read  his  elaborate 
descriptions;  the  perusal  of  Lessing's  Laokoon  had 
already  convinced  him  that  such  descriptions 
cannot  convey  an  adequate  impression  of  the 
whole.  Dickens  infused  life  even  into  inanimate 
objects  and  harmonised  the  scenery  and  situations 
with  the  characters.  That  he  understood  better. 
He  thought  Eugene  Sue's  Wanderifig  Jew  mag- 
nificent ;  he  did  not  regard  it  as  a  novel ;  for  novels, 
he  thought,  were  only  to  be  found  in  lending 
libraries.  This,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  histori- 
cal poem  of  universal  interest,  whose  Socialistic 
teaching  he  quickly  imbibed. "  Alexandre  Dumas 's 
works  seemed  to  him  like  the  boys'  books  about 
Indians.  These  he  did  not  care  for  now;  he 
wanted  books  with  some  serious  purpose.  He 
swallowed  Shakespeare  whole,  in  Hagberg's  trans- 
lation. But  he  had  always  found  it  hard  to  read 
plays  where  the  eye  must  jump  from  the  names  of 


TKe  Spring  THa-w  215 

the  dramatis  personcB  to  the  text.  He  was  dis- 
appointed in  Hamlet,  of  which  he  had  expected 
much,  and  the  comedies  seemed  to  him  sheer 
nonsense. 

John  could  not  endure  poetry.  It  seemed  to 
him  artificial  and  untrue.  Men  did  not  speak 
like  that,  and  they  seldom  thought  so  beautifully. 
Once  he  was  asked  to  write  a  verse  in  Fanny's 
album. 

"You  can  screw  yourself  up  to  do  that,"  said 
his  friend. 

John  sat  up  at  night,  but  only  managed  to 
hammer  out  two  lines.  Besides,  he  did  not  know 
what  to  say.  One  could  not  expose  one's  feelings 
to  common  observation.  Fritz  offered  his  help, 
and  together  they  produced  six  or  eight  rhyming 
lines,  for  which  Snoilsky's  A  Christmas  Eve  in  Rome 
supplied  the  motive. 

"Genius"  often  formed  the  subject  of  their  dis- 
cussions. Their  teacher  used  to  say  "Geniuses" 
ranked  above  all  else,  like  "Excellencies."  John 
thought  much  about  this,  and  believed  that  it  was 
possible  without  high  birth,  without  money,  and 
without  a  career  to  get  on  the  same  level  as  Excel- 
lencies. But  what  a  genius  was  he  did  not  know. 
Once  in  a  weak  moment  he  said  to  his  lady  friend 


2i6  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

that  he  would  rather  be  a  genius  than  a  child  of 
God,  and  received  a  sharp  reproof  from  her.  An- 
other time  he  told  Fritz  that  he  would  like  to  be  a 
professor,  as  they  can  dress  like  scarecrows  and 
behave  as  they  like  without  losing  respect.  But 
when  someone  else  asked  him  what  he  wished  to 
be,  he  said,  "A  clergyman";  for  all  peasants'  sons 
can  be  that,  and  it  seemed  a  suitable  calling  for 
him  also.  After  he  had  become  a  free-thinker,  he 
wished  to  take  a  university  degree.  But  he  did 
not  wish  to  be  a  teacher  on  any  account. 

In  the  theatre  Hamlet  made  a  deeper  impression 
on  him  than  Offenbach's  operas,  which  were  then 
being  acted.  Who  is  this  Hamlet  who  first  saw 
the  footlights  in  the  era  of  John  III.,  and  has  still 
remained  fresh?  He  is  a  figure  which  has  been 
much  exploited  and  used  for  many  purposes.  John 
forthwith  determined  to  use  him  for  his  own. 

The  curtain  rises  to  the  sound  of  cheerful  music, 
showing  the  king  and  his  court  in  glittering  array. 
Then  there  enters  the  pale  youth  in  mourning 
garb  and  opposes  his  step-father.  Ah!  he  has  a 
step-father.  "That  is  as  bad  as  having  a  step- 
mother," thought  John.  "That's  the  man  for 
me!"  And  then  they  try  to  oppress  him  and 
squeeze   sympathy  out   of  him  for  the   tyrant. 


THe  Spring  THa-w  217 

The  youth's  ego  revolts,  but  his  will  is  paralysed; 
he  threatens,  but  he  cannot  strike. 

Anyhow,  he  chastises  his  mother — a  pity  that 
it  was  not  his  step -father.  But  now  he  goes  about 
with  pangs  of  conscience.  Good!  Good!  He  is 
sick  with  too  much  thought,  he  gropes  in  his  in- 
side, inspects  his  actions  till  they  dissolve  into 
nothing.  And  he  loves  another's  betrothed;  that 
resembles  John's  life  completely.  He  begins  to 
doubt  whether  he  is  an  exception  after  all.  That, 
then,  is  a  common  story  in  life!  Very  well!  He 
did  not  need  then  to  worry  about  himself,  but 
he  had  lost  his  consciousness  of  originality.  The 
conclusion,  which  had  been  mangled,  was  un- 
impressive, but  was  partly  redeemed  by  the  fine 
speech  of  Horatio.  John  did  not  observe  the 
unpardonable  mistake  of  the  adapter  in  omitting 
the  part  of  Fortinbras,  but  Horatio,  who  was  in- 
tended to  form  a  contrast  to  Hamlet,  was  no  con- 
trast. He  is  as  great  a  coward  as  the  latter,  and 
says  only  "yes"  and  "no."  Fortinbras  was  the 
man  of  action,  the  conqueror,  the  claimant  to 
the  throne,  but  he  does  not  appear,  and  the  play 
ends  in  gloom  and  desolation. 

But  it  is  fine  to  lament  one's  destiny,  and  to 
see  it  lamented.     At  first  Hamlet  was  only  the 


2i8  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

step-son;  later  on  he  becomes  the  introspective 
brooder,  and  lastly  the  son,  the  sacrifice  to  family 
tyranny.  Schwarz  had  represented  him  as  the 
visionary  and  idealist  who  could  not  reconcile 
himself  to  reality,  and  satisfied  contemporary 
taste  accordingly.  A  future  matter-of-fact  gen- 
eration, to  whom  the  romantic  appears  simply 
ridiculous,  may  very  likely  see  the  part  of  Hamlet, 
like  that  of  Don  Quixote,  taken  by  a  comic  actor. 
Youths  like  Hamlet  have  been  for  a  long  time 
the  subject  of  ridicule,  for  a  new  generation  has 
secretly  sprung  up,  a  generation  which  thinks  with- 
out seeing  visions,  and  acts  accordingly.  The 
neutral  territory  of  belles-lettres  and  the  theatre, 
where  morality  has  nothing  to  say,  and  the  un- 
realities of  the  drama  with  its  reconstruction  of  a 
better  world  than  the  present,  were  taken  by 
John  as  something  more  than  mere  imagination. 
He  confused  poetry  and  reality,  while  he  fancied 
that  life  outside  his  parent's  house  was  ideal  and 
that  the  future  was  a  garden  of  Eden. 

The  prospect  of  soon  going  to  the  University  of 
Upsala  seemed  to  him  like  a  flight  into  liberty. 
There  one  might  be  ill-dressed,  poor,  and  still  a 
student,  i.  e.,  a  member  of  the  higher  classes ;  one 
could  sing  and  drink,  come  home  intoxicated,  and 


THe  Spring  THa-w  219 

fight  with  the  police  without  losing  one's  repu- 
tation. That  is  an  ideal  land!  How  had  he 
found  that  out?  From  the  students'  songs  which 
he  sang  with  his  brother.  But  he  did  not  know 
that  these  songs  reflected  the  views  of  the  aristo- 
cracy; that  they  were  listened  to,  piece  by  piece, 
by  princes  and  future  kings;  that  the  heroes  of 
them  were  men  of  family.  He  did  not  consider 
that  borrowing  was  not  so  dangerous,  when  there 
was  a  rich  aunt  in  the  background;  that  the  ex- 
amination was  not  so  hard  if  one  had  a  bishop  for 
an  uncle;  and  that  the  breaking  of  a  window  had 
not  got  to  be  too  dearly  paid  for  if  one  moved  in 
good  society.  But,  at  any  rate,  his  thoughts  were 
busy  with  the  future;  his  hopes  revived,  and  the 
fatal  twenty-fifth  year  did  not  loom  so  ominously 
before  him. 

About  this  time  the  volunteer  movement  was 
at  its  height.  It  was  a  happy  idea  which  gave 
Sweden  a  larger  army  than  she  had  hitherto  had — 
40,000  men  instead  of  37,000.  John  went  in  for  it 
energetically,  wore  a  uniform,  drilled,  and  learned 
to  shoot.  He  came  thereby  into  contact  with 
young  men  of  other  classes  of  society.  In  his 
company  there  were  apprentices,  shop  attendants, 
office  clerks,  and  young  artists  who  had  not  yet 


220  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

achieved  fame.  He  liked  them,  but  they  re- 
mained distant.  He  sought  to  approach  them,  but 
they  did  not  receive  him.  They  had  their  own 
language,  which  he  did  not  understand.  Now  he 
noticed  how  his  education  had  separated  him 
from  the  companions  of  his  childhood.  They 
took  for  granted  that  he  was  proud.  But,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  looked  up  to  them  in  some 
things.  They  were  frank,  fearless,  independent, 
and  pecuniarily  better  circumstanced  than  him- 
self, for  they  always  had  money. 

Accompanying  the  troops  on  long  marches  had 
a  soothing  effect  on  him.  He  was  not  born  to 
command,  and  obeyed  gladly,  if  the  person  who 
commanded  did  not  betray  pride  or  imperiousness. 
He  had  no  ambition  to  become  a  corporal,  for  then 
he  would  have  had  to  think,  and  what  was  still 
worse,  decide  for  others.  He  remained  a  slave 
by  nature  and  inclination,  but  he  was  sensitive 
to  the  injustice  of  tyrants,  and  observed  them 
narrowly. 

At  one  important  manoeuvre  he  could  not  help 
expostiilating  with  regard  to  certain  blunders 
committed,  e.g.,  that  the  infantry  of  the  guard 
should  be  ranged  up  at  a  landing-place  against  the 
cannon  of  the  fleet  which  covered  the  barges  on 


TKe  Spring  TKa-w  221 

which  they  were  standing.  The  cannon  played 
about  their  ears  from  a  short  distance,  but  they 
remained  unmoved.  He  expostulated  and  swore, 
but  obeyed,  for  he  had  determined  beforehand  to 
do  so. 

On  one  occasion,  while  they  were  halting  at 
Tyreso,  he  wrestled  in  sport  with  a  comrade. 
The  captain  of  the  company  stepped  forward  and 
forbade  such  rough  play.  John  answered  sharply 
that  they  were  off  duty,  and  that  they  were 
playing. 

"Yes,  but  play  may  become  earnest,"  said  the 
captain. 

"That  depends  on  us,"  answered  John,  and 
obeyed.  But  he  thought  him  fussy  for  interfering 
in  such  trifles,  and  believed  that  he  noticed  a  cer- 
tain dislike  in  his  superior  towards  himself.  The 
former  was  called  "magister, "  because  he  wrote 
for  the  papers,  but  he  was  not  even  a  student. 
" There  it  is, "  he  thought,  "he  wants  to  humiliate 
me."  And  from  that  time  he  watched  him 
closely.  Their  mutual  antipathy  lasted  through 
their  lives. 

The  volunteer  movement  was  in  the  first  place 
the  result  of  the  Danish-German  War,  and,  though 
transitory,  was  in  some  degree  advantageous.     It 


222  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

kept  the  young  men  occupied,  and  did  away,  to  a 
certain  extent,  with  the  military  prestige  of  the 
army,  as  the  lower  classes  discovered  that  soldier- 
ing was  not  such  a  difficult  matter  after  all.  The 
insight  thus  gained  caused  a  widespread  resistance 
to  the  introduction  of  the  Prussian  system  of  com- 
pulsory service  which  was  much  mooted  at  the 
time,  since  Oscar  II.,  when  visiting  Berlin,  had 
expressed  to  the  Emperor  William  his  hope  that 
Swedish  and  Prussian  troops  would  once  more  be 
brothers-in-arms. 


IX 

WITH    STRANGERS 

One  of  his  bold  dreams  had  been  fulfilled:  he 
had  found  a  situation  for  the  summer.  Why  had 
he  not  found  one  sooner?  He  had  not  dared  to 
hope  for  it,  and,  therefore,  had  never  sought  it, 
from  fear  of  meeting  with  a  refusal.  A  dis- 
appointed hope  was  the  worst  thing  he  could 
imagine.  But  now,  all  at  once.  Fortune  shook 
her  cornucopia  over  him ;  the  post  he  had  obtained 
was  in  the  finest  situation  that  he  knew — the 
Stockholm  archipelago — on  the  most  beautiful  of 
all  the  islands,  Sotaskar.  He  now  liked  aristo- 
crats. His  step-mother's  ill-treatment  of  him, 
his  relations'  perpetual  watching  to  discover 
arrogance  in  him,  where  there  was  only  superiority 
of  intelligence,  generosity,  and  self-sacrifice,  the 
attempts  of  his  volunteer  comrades  to  oppress 
him,  had  driven  him  out  of  the  class  to  which  he 

naturally  belonged.     He  did  not  think  or  feel  any 

223 


224  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

more  as  they  did;  he  had  another  reHgion,  and 
another  view  of  Hfe.  The  well-regulated  be- 
haviour and  confident  bearing  of  his  aristocratic 
friends  satisfied  his  aesthetic  sense;  his  education 
had  brought  him  nearer  to  them,  and  alienated 
him  from  the  lower  classes.  The  aristocrats 
seemed  to  him  less  proud  than  the  middle  class. 
They  did  not  oppress,  but  prized  culture  and 
talent;  they  were  democratic  in  their  behaviour 
towards  him,  for  they  treated  him  as  an  equal, 
whereas  his  own  relatives  regarded  him  as  a 
subordinate  and  inferior.  Fritz,  for  example, 
who  was  the  son  of  a  miller  in  the  country,  visited 
at  the  house  of  a  lord-in- waiting,  and  played  in  a 
comedy  with  his  sons  before  the  director  of  the 
Theatre  Royal,  who  offered  him  an  engagement. 
No  one  asked  whose  son  he  was.  But  when  Fritz 
came  to  a  dance  at  John's  house,  he  was  carefully 
inspected  behind  and  before,  and  great  satisfaction 
was  caused  when  some  relative  imparted  the  in- 
formation that  his  father  had  once  been  a  miller's 
servant. 

John  had  become  aristocratic  in  his  views, 
without,  however,  ceasing  to  sympathise  with  the 
lower  classes,  and  since  about  the  year  1865  the 
nobility  were  fairly  liberal  in  politics,  condescend- 


"WitH  Strangers  225 

ing  and  popular  for  the  time,  he  let  himself  be 
duped. 

Fritz  began  to  give  him  instructions  how  he 
should  behave.  One  should  not  be  cringing,  he 
said,  but  be  yielding;  should  not  say  all  that  one 
thought,  for  no  one  wished  to  know  that;  it  was 
good  if  one  could  say  polite  things,  without  indulg- 
ing in  too  gross  flattery;  one  should  converse,  but 
not  argue,  above  all  things  not  dispute,  for  one 
never  got  the  best  of  it.  Fritz  was  certainly  a 
wise  youth.  John  thought  the  advice  terribly 
hard,  but  stored  it  up  in  his  mind.  What  he 
wanted  to  get  was  a  salary,  and  perhaps  the  chance 
of  a  tour  abroad  to  Rome  or  Paris  with  his  pupils ; 
that  was  the  most  he  hoped  for  from  his  noble 
friends,  and  what  he  intended  to  aim  at. 

One  Sunday  he  visited  the  wife  of  the  baron, 

his  future  employer,  as  she  was  in  the  town.     She 

seemed  like  the  portrait  of  a  mediaeval  lady;  she 

had  an  aquiline  nose,  great  brown  eyes,  and  curled 

hair,   which   hung   over   her   temples.     She   was 

somewhat    sentimental,    talked    in    a    drawling 

manner,  and  with  a  nasal  twang.     John  did  not 

think  her  aristocratic,  and  the  house  was  a  poorer 

one  than  his  own  home,  but  they  had,  besides,  an 

estate  and  a  castle.     However,  she  pleased  him, 
15 


226  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

for  she  had  a  certain  resemblance  to  his  mother. 
She  examined  him,  talked  with  him,  and  let  her 
ball  of  wool  fall.  John  sprang  up  and  gave  it  to 
her,  with  a  self-satisfied  air  which  seemed  to  say, 
"I  can  do  that,  for  I  have  often  picked  up  ladies* 
handkerchiefs."  Her  opinion  of  him  after  the 
examination  was  a  favourable  one,  and  he  was 
engaged.  On  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which 
they  were  to  leave  the  city  he  called  again.  The 
royal  secretary,  for  so  the  gentleman  of  the  house 
was  called,  was  standing  in  his  shirt-sleeves  before 
the  mirror  and  tjdng  his  cravat.  He  looked  proud 
and  melancholy,  and  his  greeting  was  curt  and 
cold.  John  took  a  seat  uninvited,  and  tried  to 
commence  a  conversation,  but  was  not  particularly 
successful  in  keeping  it  up,  especially  as  the  secre- 
tary turned  his  back  to  him,  and  gave  only  short 
answers. 

" He  is  not  an  aristocrat, "  thought  John;  "he  is 
a  boor. " 

The  two  were  antipathetic  to  each  other,  as  two 
members  of  the  lower  class,  who  looked  askance 
at  each  other  in  their  clamber  laboriously  upwards. 

The  carriage  was  before  the  door ;  the  coachman 
was  in  livery,  and  stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 
The  secretary  asked  John  whether  he  would  sit 


"With  Strang'ers  227 

in  the  carriage  or  on  the  box,  but  in  such  a  tone 
that  John  determined  to  be  poHte  and  to  accept 
the  invitation  to  sit  on  the  box.  So  he  sat  next 
the  coachman.  As  the  whip  cracked,  and  the 
horses  started,  he  had  only  one  thought,  "Away 
from  home!     Out  into  the  world!" 

At  the  first  halting-place  John  got  down  from 
the  box  and  went  to  the  carriage  window.  He 
asked  in  an  easy,  polite,  perhaps  somewhat  con- 
fidential tone,  how  his  employers  were.  The 
baron  answered  curtly,  in  a  tone  in  a  way  which 
cut  off  all  attempts  at  a  nearer  approach.  What 
did  that  mean? 

They  took  their  seats  again.  John  lighted  a 
cigar,  and  offered  the  coachman  one.  The  latter, 
however,  whispered  in  reply  that  he  dared  not 
smoke  on  the  box.  He  then  pumped  the  coach- 
man, but  cautiously,  regarding  the  baron's  friends, 
and  so  on.  Towards  evening  they  reached  the 
estate.  The  house  stood  on  a  wooded  hill,  and  was 
a  white  stone  building  with  outside  blinds.  The 
roof  was  flat,  and  its  rounded  comers  gave  the 
building  a  somewhat  Italian  aspect,  but  the  blinds, 
with  their  white  and  red  borders,  were  elegance 
itself.  John,  with  his  three  pupils,  was  installed 
in  one  wing,  which  consisted  of  an  isolated  build- 


228  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

ing  with  two  rooms ;  the  other  of  which  was  occu- 
pied by  the  coachman. 

After  eight  days  John  discovered  that  he  was  a 
servant,  and  in  a  very  unpleasant  position.  His 
father's  man-servant  had  a  better  room  all  to 
himself;  and  for  several  hours  of  the  day  was 
master  of  his  own  person  and  thoughts.  But 
John  was  not.  Night  and  day  he  had  to  be  with 
the  boys,  teach  them,  and  play  and  bathe  with 
them.  If  he  allowed  himself  a  moment's  liberty, 
and  was  seen  about,  he  was  at  once  asked,  "Where 
are  the  children?"  He  lived  in  perpetual  anxiety 
lest  some  accident  should  happen  to  them.  He 
was  responsible  for  the  behaviour  of  four  persons — 
his  own  and  that  of  his  three  pupils.  Every  critic- 
ism of  them  struck  him.  He  had  no  companion 
of  his  own  age  with  whom  he  could  converse. 
The  steward  was  almost  the  whole  day  at  work, 
and  hardly  ever  visible. 

But  there  were  two  compensations:  the  scenery 
and  the  sense  of  being  free  from  the  bondage  in 
his  parent's  house.  The  baroness  treated  him  con- 
fidentially, almost  in  a  motherly  way;  she  liked 
discussing  literature  with  him.  At  such  times 
he  felt  on  the  same  level  with  her,  and  superior 
to  her  in  point  of  erudition,  but  as  soon  as  the 


WitH  Strangers  229 

secretary  came  home  he  sank  to  the  position  of 
children's  nurse  again. 

The  scenery  of  the  islands  had  for  him  a  greater 
charm  than  the  banks  of  the  Malar,  and  his  magic 
recollections  of  Drottningholm  faded.  In  the 
past  year  he  had  climbed  up  a  hill  in  Tyreso 
with  the  volunteer  sharpshooters.  It  was  covered 
with  a  thick  fir-wood.  They  crawled  through  bil- 
berry and  juniper  bushes  till  they  reached  a  steep, 
rocky  plateau.  From  this  they  viewed  a  pano- 
rama which  thrilled  him  with  delight :  water  and 
islands,  water  and  islands  stretched  away  into 
infinite  distance.  Although  born  in  Stockholm 
he  had  never  seen  the  islands,  and  did  not  know 
where  he  was.  The  view  made  a  deep  impression 
on  him,  as  if  he  had  rediscovered  a  land  which  had 
appeared  to  him  in  his  fairest  dreams  or  in  a  former 
existence — in  which  he  believed,  but  about  which 
he  knew  nothing.  The  troop  of  sharpshooters 
drew  ofE  into  the  wood,  but  John  remained  upon 
the  height  and  worshipped — that  is  the  right  word. 
The  attacking  troop  approached  and  fired;  the 
bullets  whistled  about  his  ears;  he  hid  himself, 
but  he  could  not  go  away.  That  was  his  land- 
scape and  proper  environment — barren,  rugged 
gray  rocks  surrounding  wide  stormy  bays,  and 


230  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

the  endless  sea  in  the  distance  as  a  background. 
He  remained  faithful  to  this  love,  which  could  not 
be  explained  by  the  fact  that  it  was  his  first  love. 
Neither  the  Alps  of  Switzerland,  nor  the  olive 
groves  of  the  Mediterranean,  nor  the  steep  coast 
of  Normandy,  could  dethrone  this  rival  from  his 
heart. 

Now  he  was  in  Paradise,  though  rather  too  deep 
in  it;  the  shore  of  Sotaskar  consisted  of  green 
pasturage  overshadowed  by  oaks,  and  the  bay 
opened  out  to  the  fjord  in  the  far  distance.  The 
water  was  pure  and  salt ;  that  was  something  new. 
In  one  of  his  excursions  with  his  rifle,  the  dogs, 
and  the  boys,  he  came  one  fine  sunny  day  down 
to  the  water's  edge.  On  the  other  side  of  the  bay 
stood  a  castle,  a  large,  old-fashioned  stone  edifice. 
He  had  discovered  that  his  employer  only  rented 
the   estate. 

"Who  lives  in  the  castle?"  he  asked  the  boys. 

"Uncle  Wilhelm, "  they  answered. 

"What  is  his  title?" 

"Baron  X." 

"Do  you  never  go  there?" 

"Oh,  yes;  sometimes." 

So  there  was  a  castle  here  with  a  baron !  John's 
walks  now  regularly  took  the  direction  of  the  shore. 


With  Strangers  231 

from  which  he  could  see  the  castle.  It  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  park  and  garden.  At  home  they 
had  no  garden. 

One  fine  day  the  baroness  told  him  that  he 
must  accompany  the  boys  on  the  morrow  to 
the  baron's,  and  remain  there  for  the  day.  She 
and  her  husband  would  stay  at  home;  "he 
would  therefore  represent  the  house,"  she  added 
jestingly. 

Then  he  asked  what  he  was  to  wear.  He  could 
go  in  his  summer  suit,  she  said,  take  his  black 
coat  on  his  arm,  and  change  for  dinner  in  the 
little  tapestry-room  on  the  ground  floor.  He 
asked  whether  he  should  wear  gloves.  She 
laughed,  "No,  he  needed  no  gloves."  He  dreamt 
the  whole  night  about  the  baron,  the  castle, 
and  the  tapestry-room.  In  the  morning  a  hay- 
waggon  came  to  the  house  to  fetch  them.  He  did 
not  like  this;  it  reminded  him  of  the  parish  clerk's 
school. 

And  so  they  went  off.  They  came  to  a  long 
avenue  of  lime  trees,  drove  into  the  courtyard,  and 
stopped  before  the  castle.  It  was  a  real  castle, 
and  looked  as  if  it  had  been  built  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  From  an  arbour  there  came  the  well- 
known  click  of  a  draught-board.     A  middle-aged 


232  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

gentleman  in  an  ill-fitting,  holland  suit  came  out. 
His  face  was  not  aristocratic,  but  rather  of  the 
middle-class  type,  with  a  seaman's  beard  of  a 
gray-yellow  colour.  He  also  wore  earrings.  John 
held  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  introduced  himself. 
The  baron  greeted  him  in  a  friendly  way,  and  bade 
him  enter  the  arbour.  Here  stood  a  table  with  a 
draught-board,  by  which  sat  a  little  old  man  who 
was  very  amiable  in  his  manner.  He  was  in- 
troduced as  the  pastor  of  a  small  town.  John 
was  given  a  glass  of  brandy,  and  asked  about 
the  Stockholm  news.  Since  he  was  familiar  with 
theatrical  gossip  and  similar  things,  he  was  listened 
to  with  greater  attention.  "There  it  is,"  he 
thought,  "the  real  aristocrats  are  much  more 
democratic  than  the  sham  ones." 

"Oh!"  said  the  Baron.     "Pardon me,  Mr. , 

I  did  not  catch  the  name.  Yes,  that  is  it.  Are 
you  related  to  Oscar  Strindberg?" 

"He  is  my  father." 

"Good  heavens!  is  it  possible?  He  is  an  old 
friend  of  mine  from  my  youthful  days,  when  I 
was  pilot  on  the  Strengnas. " 

John  did  not  believe  his  ears.  The  baron  had 
been  pilot  on  a  steamer!  Yes,  indeed,  he  had. 
But  he  wished  to  hear  about  his  friend  Oscar. 


With  Strangers  233 

John  looked  around  him,  and  asked  himself  if 
this  really  was  the  baron.  The  baroness  now 
appeared;  she  was  as  simple  and  friendly  as  the 
baron.  The  bell  rang  for  dinner.  "Now  we 
will  get  something  to  drink,"  said  the  baron. 
"Come  along." 

John  at  first  made  a  vain  attempt  to  put  on  his 
frock-coat  behind  a  door  in  the  hall,  but  finally 
succeeded,  as  the  baroness  had  said  that  he  ought 
to  wear  it.  Then  they  entered  the  dining-hall. 
Yes,  that  was  a  real  castle ;  the  floor  was  paved  with 
stone,  the  ceiling  was  of  carved  wood ;  the  window- 
niches  were  so  deep  that  they  seemed  to  form 
little  rooms ;  the  fire  place  could  hold  a  barrow- 
load  of  wood;  there  was  a  three-footed  piano, 
and  the  walls  were  covered  with  dark  paintings. 

John  felt  quite  at  home  during  dinner.  In  the 
afternoon  he  played  with  the  baron,  and  drank 
toddy.  All  the  courteous  usages  he  had  expected 
were  in  evidence,  and  he  was  well  pleased  with  the 
day  when  it  was  over.  As  he  went  down  the 
long  avenue,  he  turned  round  and  contemplated 
the  castle.  It  looked  now  less  stately  and  almost 
poverty  stricken.  It  pleased  him  all  the  better, 
though  it  had  been  more  romantic  to  look  at  it  as 
a  fairy-tale  castle  from  the  other  shore.     Now  he 


234  The  Son  of  a  Servant 

had  nothing  more  to  which  he  could  look  up.  But 
he  himself,  on  the  other  hand,  was  no  more  below. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  better  to  have  something  to 
which  one  can  look  up. 

When  he  came  home,  he  was  examined  by  the 
baroness.  "How  did  he  like  the  baron?"  John 
answered  that  he  was  pleasant  and  condescending. 
He  was  also  prudent  enough  to  say  nothing  of 
the  baron's  friendship  with  his  father.  "They 
will  learn  it  anyhow,"  he  thought.  Meanwhile 
he  already  felt  more  at  home,  and  was  no  more 
so  timid.  One  day  he  borrowed  a  horse,  but  he 
rode  it  so  roughly  that  he  was  not  allowed  to 
borrow  one  again.  Then  he  hired  one  from  a 
peasant.  It  looked  so  fine  to  sit  high  on  a  horse 
and  gallop;  he  felt  his  strength  grow  at  the  same 
time. 

His  illusions  were  dispelled,  but  to  feel  on  the 
same  level  with  those  about  him,  without  wishing 
to  pull  anyone  down,  that  had  something  soothing 
about  it.  He  wrote  a  boasting  letter  to  his  brother 
at  home,  but  received  an  answer  calculated  to 
set  him  down.  Since  he  was  quite  alone,  and  had 
no  one  with  whom  he  could  talk,  he  wrote  letters 
in  diary-form  to  his  friend  Fritz.  The  latter  had 
obtained  a  post  with  a  merchant  by  the  Malar 


WitK  Strangers  235 

Lake,  where  there  were  young  girls,  music,  and 
good  eating.  John  sometimes  wished  to  be  in  his 
place.  In  his  diary-letter  he  tried  to  idealise  the 
realities  aroiind  him,  and  succeeded  in  arousing 
his  friend's  envy. 

The  story  of  the  baron's  acquaintance  with 
John's  father  spread,  and  the  baroness  felt  herself 
bound  to  speak  ill  of  her  brother.  John  had, 
nevertheless,  intelligence  enough  to  perceive  that 
here  there  was  something  to  do  with  the  tragedy 
of  an  estate  in  tail.  Since  he  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  matter,  he  took  no  trouble  to  inquire 
into  it. 

During  a  visit  which  John  paid  to  the  pastor's 
house,  the  assistant  pastor  happened  to  hear  of 
his  idea  of  being  a  pastor  himself.  Since  the 
senior  pastor,  on  account  of  old  age  and  weakness, 
no  longer  preached,  his  assistant  was  John's  only 
acquaintance.  The  assistant  found  the  work 
heavy,  so  he  was  very  glad  to  come  across  young 
students  who  wished  to  make  their  debuts  as 
preachers.  He  asked  John  whether  he  would 
preach.  Upon  John's  objecting  that  he  was  not 
a  student  yet,  he  answered,  "No  matter."  John 
said  he  would  consider. 

The  assistant  did  not  let   him  consider  long. 


236  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

He  said  that  many  students  and  collegians  had 
preached  here  before,  and  that  the  church  had 
a  certain  fame  since  the  actor  Knut  Almlof 
had  preached  here  in  his  youth.  John  had  seen 
him  act  as  Menelaus  in  The  Beautiful  Helen,  and 
admired  him.  He  consented  to  his  friend's  re- 
quest, began  to  search  for  a  text,  borrowed  some 
homilies,  and  promised  to  have  his  trial  sermon 
ready  by  Friday.  So,  then,  only  a  year  after  his 
Confirmation,  he  would  preach  in  the  pulpit,  and 
the  baron  and  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  would  sit 
as  devout  hearers !  So  soon  at  the  goal,  without  a 
clerical  examination — yes,  even  without  his  final 
college  examination!  They  would  lend  him  a 
gown  and  bands;  he  would  pray  the  Lord's  Prayer 
and  read  the  Commandments!  His  head  began 
to  swell,  and  he  walked  home  feeling  a  foot  taller, 
with  the  full  consciousness  that  he  was  no  longer 
a  boy. 

But  as  he  came  home  he  began  to  think  seri- 
ously. He  was  a  free-thinker.  Is  it  honourable  to 
play  the  hypocrite?  No,  no.  But  must  he  then 
give  up  the  sermon?  That  would  be  too  great 
a  sacrifice.  He  felt  ambitious,  and  perhaps  he 
would  be  able  to  sow  some  seeds  of  free-thought, 
which  would  spring  up  later.     Yes,  but  it  was  dis- 


With  Strangers  237 

honest.  With  his  old  egotistic  moraUty  he  always 
regarded  the  motive  of  the  actor,  not  the  bene- 
ficial or  injurious  effect  of  the  action.  It  was 
profitable  for  him  to  preach;  it  would  not  hurt 
others  to  hear  something  new  and  true.  But  it 
was  not  honest.  He  could  not  get  away  from 
that  objection.  He  took  the  baroness  into  his 
confidence. 

"  Do  you  believe  that  preachers  believe  all  they 
say?"  she  asked. 

That  was  the  preachers'  affair,  but  John  could 
not  act  a  double  part.  Finally,  he  walked  to  the 
assistant  pastor's  house,  and  consulted  him.  It 
vexed  the  assistant  to  have  to  hear  about  it. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "but  you  believe  in  God,  I 
suppose?" 

"Yes,  certainly  I  do." 

"Very  well!  don't  speak  of  Christ.  Bishop 
Wallin  never  mentioned  the  name  of  Christ  in  his 
sermons.  But  don't  bother  any  more.  I  don't 
want  to  hear  about  it." 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  said  John,  glad  to  have 
saved  his  honesty  and  his  prospect  of  distinction 
at  the  same  time.  They  had  a  glass  of  wine,  and 
the  matter  was  settled. 

There  was  something  intoxicating  for  him  in 


238  XHe  Son  of  a  Servant 

sitting  over  his  books  and  homilies,  and  in  hearing 
the  baron  ask  for  him,  and  the  servant  answer: 
"The  tutor  is  writing  his  sermon." 

He  had  to  expound  the  text:  "Jesus  said,  Now 
is  the  son  of  man  glorified,  and  God  is  glorified  in 
him.  If  God  be  glorified  in  him,  God  shall  glorify 
him  in  himself,  and  shall  straightway  glorify 
him." 

That  was  all.  He  turned  the  sentence  this 
way  and  that,  but  could  find  no  meaning  in  it. 
"It  is  obscure,"  he  thought.  But  it  touched  the 
most  delicate  point — the  Deity  of  Christ.  If  he 
had  the  courage  to  explain  away  that,  he  would 
certainly  have  done  something  important.  The 
prospect  enticed  him,  and  with  Theodore  Parker's 
help  he  composed  a  prose  poem  on  Christ  as  the 
Son  of  God,  and  then  put  forward  very  cautiously 
the  assertion  that  we  are  all  God's  sons,  but  that 
Christ  is  His  chosen  and  beloved  Son,  whose 
teaching  we  must  obey.  But  that  was  only  the 
introduction,  and  the  gospel  is  read  after  the  in- 
troduction. About  what,  then,  should  he  preach? 
He  had  already  pacified  his  conscience  by  plainly 
stating  his  views  regarding  the  Deity  of  Christ. 
He  glowed  with  excitement,  his  courage  grew,  and 
he  felt  that  he  had  a  mission  to  fulfil.     He  would 


WitK  Strangers  239 

draw  his  sword  against  dogmas,  against  the 
doctrine  of  election  and  pietism. 

When  he  came  to  the  place  where,  after  reading 
the  text,  he  ought  to  have  said,  "The  text  we  have 
read  gives  us  occasion  for  a  short  time  to  consider 
the  following  subject,"  he  wrote:  "Since  the  text 
of  the  day  gives  no  further  occasion  for  remark, 
we  will,  for  a  short  time,  consider  what  is  of 
greater  importance. "  And  so  he  dealt  with  God's 
work  in  conversion.  He  made  two  attacks:  one 
on  the  custom  of  preaching  from  the  text,  and 
the  second  against  the  Church's  teaching  on  the 
subject  of  grace. 

First  he  spoke  of  conversion  as  a  serious  matter, 
which  required  a  sacrifice,  and  depended  on  the 
free-will  of  man  (he  was  not  quite  clear  about 
that).  He  ignored  the  doctrine  of  election,  and 
finally  flung  open  for  all  the  doors  of  the  kingdom 
of  heaven:  "Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  are  weary 
and  heavy  laden."  "To-day  shalt  thou  be  with 
me  in  Paradise. "  That  is  the  gospel  of  Christ  for 
all,  and  no  one  is  to  believe  that  the  key  of  heaven 
is  committed  to  him  (that  was  a  hit  at  the  pietists) , 
but  that  the  doors  of  grace  are  open  for  all 
without  exception. 

He  was  very  much  in  earnest,  and  felt  like  a 


240  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

missionary.  On  Friday  he  betook  himself  to  the 
church,  and  read  certain  passages  of  his  sermon 
from  the  pulpit.  He  chose  the  most  harmless  ones. 
Then  he  repeated  the  prayers,  while  the  assistant 
pastor  stood  under  the  choir  gallery  and  called  to 
him,  "Louder!  Slower!"  He  was  approved, 
and  they  had  a  glass  of  wine  together. 

On  Sunday  the  church  was  full  of  people.  John 
put  on  his  gown  and  bands  in  the  vestry.  For  a 
moment  he  felt  it  comical,  but  then  was  seized  with 
anxiety.  He  prayed  to  the  only  true  God  for 
help,  now  that  he  was  to  draw  the  sword  against 
age-long  error,  and  when  the  last  notes  of  the 
organ  were  silent,  he  entered  the  pulpit  with 
confidence. 

Everything  went  well.  But  when  he  came  to 
the  place,  "Since  the  text  of  the  day  gives  no 
occasion  for  remark,  '*  and  saw  a  movement  among 
the  faces  of  the  congregation,  which  looked  like  so 
many  white  blurs,  he  trembled.  But  only  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  plucked  up  courage  and  read 
his  sermon  in  a  fairly  strong  and  confident  voice. 
When  he  neared  the  end,  he  was  so  moved  by  the 
beautiful  truths  which  he  proclaimed,  that  he 
could  scarcely  see  the  writing  on  the  paper  for 
tears.     He  took  a  long  breath,  and  read  through 


"WitK  Strangers  241 

all  the  prayers,  till  the  organ  began  and  he  left  the 
pulpit.  The  pastor  thanked  him,  but  said  one 
should  not  wander  from  the  text;  it  would  be  a 
bad  lookout  if  the  Church  Consistory  heard  of  it. 
But  he  hoped  no  one  had  noticed  it.  He  had  no 
fault  to  find  with  the  contents  of  the  sermon. 
They  had  dinner  at  the  pastor's  house,  played 
and  danced  with  the  girls,  and  John  was  the  hero 
of  the  day.  The  girls  said,  "It  was  a  very  fine 
sermon,  for  it  was  so  short. "  He  had  read  much 
too  fast,  and  had  left  out  a  prayer. 

In  the  autumn  John  returned  with  the  boys  to 
the  town,  in  order  to  live  with  them  and  look  after 
their  school-work.  They  went  to  the  Clara 
School,  so  that,  like  a  crab,  he  felt  he  was  going 
backwards.  The  same  school,  the  same  head- 
master, the  same  malicious  Latin  teacher.  John 
worked  conscientiously  with  his  pupils,  heard 
their  lessons,  and  could  swear  that  they  had  been 
properly  learned.  None  the  less,  in  the  report 
books  which  they  took  home,  and  which  their 
father  read,  it  was  stated  that  such  and  such 
lessons  had  not  been  learned. 

"That  is  a  lie,"  said  John. 

"Well,  but  it  is  written  here,"  answered  the 

boys'  father. 
16 


242  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

It  was  hard  work,  and  he  was  preparing  at  the 
same  time  for  his  own  examination.  In  the 
autumn  hoHdays  they  went  back  to  the  country. 
They  sat  by  the  stove  and  cracked  nuts,  a  whole 
sackful,  and  read  the  Frithiof  Saga,  Axel,  and 
Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper.''  The  evenings 
were  intolerably  long.  But  John  discovered  a  new 
steward,  who  was  treated  almost  like  a  servant. 
This  provoked  John  to  make  friends  with 
him,  and  in  his  room  they  brewed  punch  and 
played  cards.  The  baroness  ventured  to  re- 
mark that  the  steward  was  not  a  suitable  friend 
for  John. 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  latter. 

"He  has  no  education." 

"That  is  not  so  dangerous." 

She  also  said  that  she  preferred  that  the  tutor 
should  spend  his  time  with  the  family  in  the 
evening,  or,  at  any  rate,  stay  in  the  boys'  room. 
He  chose  the  latter,  for  it  was  very  stuffy  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  he  was  tired  of  the  reading 
aloud  and  the  conversation.  He  now  stayed  in 
his  own  and  the  boys'  room.  The  steward  came 
there,  and  they  played  their  game  of  cards.  The 
boys  asked  to  be  allowed  to  take  a  hand.     Why 

'  Three  poems  by  Tegner — the  last  translated  by  Longfellow. 


WitK  Strangers  243 

should  they  not?  John  had  played  whist  at 
home  with  his  father  and  brothers,  and  the  inno- 
cent recreation  had  been  regarded  as  a  means  of 
education  for  teaching  self- discipline,  carefulness, 
attention,  and  fairness;  he  had  never  played  for 
money;  each  dishonest  trick  was  immediately 
exposed,  untimely  exultation  at  a  victory  silenced, 
sulkiness  at  a  defeat  ridiculed. 

At  that  time  the  boys'  parents  made  no  objec- 
tions, for  they  were  glad  that  the  youngsters  were 
occupied.  But  they  did  not  like  their  being  on 
intimate  terms  with  the  steward.  John  had,  in 
the  summer,  formed  a  little  military  troop  from 
his  pupils  and  the  workmen's  children,  and  drilled 
them  in  the  open  air.  But  the  baroness  forbade 
this  close  intercourse  with  the  latter.  "  Each  class 
should  keep  to  itself,"  she  .said. 

But  John  could  not  understand  why  that  should 
be,  since  in  the  year  1865  class  distinctions  had 
been  done  away  with. 

In  the  meantime  a  storm  was  brewing,  and  a 
mere  trifle  was  the  occasion  of  its  outbreak. 

One  morning  the  baron  was  storming  about  a 
pair  of  his  driving- gloves  which  had  disappeared. 
He  suspected  his  eldest  boy.  The  latter  denied 
having   taken   them,    and   accused   the   steward, 


244  XKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

specifying  the  time  when  he  said  he  had  taken 
them.     The  steward  was  called. 

"You  have  taken  my  driving-gloves,  sir !  What 
is  the  meaning  of  this?"  said  the  baron. 

"No,  sir,  I  have  not." 

"What!     Hugo  says  you  did. " 

John,  who  happened  to  be  present,  stepped 
forward  unsolicited,  and  said,  "Then  Hugo  lies. 
He  himself  has  had  the  gloves." 

"What  do  you  say?"  said  the  baron,  motioning 
to  the  steward  to  go. 

"I  say  the  truth." 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  accusing  my  son  in 
the  presence  of  a  servant?" 

"Mr.  X.  is  not  a  servant,  and,  besides,  he  is 
innocent." 

"Yes,  very  innocent — playing  cards  together 
and  drinking  with  the  boys!  That 's  a  nice  busi- 
ness, eh?" 

"Why  did  you  not  mention  it  before?  Then 
you  would  have  found  out  that  I  do  not  drink  with 
the  boys. " 

"  'You,'  you  d— d  hobbledehoy!  What  do 
you  mean  by  calling  me  'you.'  " 

"  Mr.  Secretary  can  look  for  another  '  hobblede- 
hoy' to  teach  his  boys,  since  Mr.  Secretary  is  too 


"WitK  Strangers  245 

covetous  to  engage  a  grown  person."     So  saying, 
John  departed. 

On  the  next  day  they  were  to  return  to  the  town, 
for  the  Christmas  holidays  were  at  an  end.  So  he 
would  have  to  go  home  again — back  into  hell,  to 
be  despised  and  oppressed,  and  it  would  be  a  thou- 
sand times  worse  after  he  had  boasted  of  his  new 
situation,  and  compared  it  with  his  parents* 
house  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  latter.  He 
wept  for  anger,  but  after  such  an  insult  there  was 
no  retreat. 

He  was  simimoned  to  the  baroness,  but  said 
she  must  wait  awhile.  Then  a  messenger  came 
again  for  him.  In  a  sullen  mood  he  went  up  to 
her.  She  was  quite  mild,  and  asked  him  to  stay 
some  days  with  them  till  they  had  foimd  another 
tutor.  He  promised,  since  she  had  asked  him  so 
pressingly.  She  said  she  would  drive  with  the 
boys  into  the  town. 

The  sleigh  came  to  the  door,  and  the  baron  stood 
by,  and  said,  "You  can  sit  on  the  box." 

"I  know  my  place,"  said  John.  At  the  first 
halting-place  the  baroness  asked  him  to  get  into 
the  sleigh,  but  he  would  not. 

They  stayed  in  the  town  eight  days.  In  the 
meanwhile  John  had  written  a  somewhat  arrogant 


246  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

letter,  in  an  independent  tone,  home,  which  did 
not  please  his  father,  although  he  had  flattered 
him  in  it.  "I  think  you  should  have  first  asked 
if  you  could  come  home,"  he  said.  In  that  he 
was  right.  But  John  had  never  thought  otherwise 
of  his  parents'  house  than  of  an  hotel,  where  he 
could  get  board  and  lodging  without  paying. 

So  he  was  home  again.  Through  an  incompre- 
hensible simplicity  he  had  let  himself  be  persuaded 
to  continue  to  go  through  his  former  pupils' 
school-work  with  them,  though  he  received  no- 
thing for  it.  One  evening  Fitz  wanted  to  take 
him  to  a  cafe. 

"No,"  said  John,  "I  must  give  some  lessons." 

"Where?" 

"To  the  Secretary's  boys." 

"What!  haven't  you  done  with  them  yet?" 

"  No,  I  have  promised  to  help  them  till  they  get 
a  new  teacher." 

"What  do  you  get  for  it?" 

"What  do  I  get?  I  have  had  board  and  lodg- 
ing." 

"  Yes,  but  what  do  you  get  now,  when  you  don't 
board  and  lodge  with  them?" 

"Hm!     I  did  n't  think  of  that." 

"You    are    a    lunatic — teaching    rich    peoples' 


"With  Strangers  247 

children  gratis.  Well,  you  come  along  with  me, 
and  don't  cross  their  threshold  again." 

John  had  a  struggle  with  himself  on  the  pave- 
ment.    "But  I  promised  them." 

"You  should  not  promise.  Come  now  and 
write  a  letter  withdrawing  your  offer. " 

"  I  must  go  and  take  leave  of  them. " 

"It  is  not  necessary.  They  promised  you  a 
present  at  Christmas,  but  you  got  nothing;  and 
now  you  let  yourself  be  treated  like  a  servant. 
Come  now  and  write." 

He  was  dragged  to  the  caf6.  The  waitress 
brought  paper  and  ink,  and,  at  his  friend's  dicta- 
tion, he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  effect  that,  in  con- 
sequence of  his  approaching  examination,  he 
would  have  no  more  leisure  for  teaching. 

He  was  free!     "But  I  feel  ashamed,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  have  been  impolite." 

"Rubbish!     Waitress,  bring  half  a  punch." 


CHARACTER    AND    DESTINY 

About  this  time  the  free- thought  movement 
was  at  its  height.  After  preaching  his  ser- 
mon, John  beheved  it  was  his  mission  and  duty 
to  spread  and  champion  the  new  doctrines.  He 
therefore  began  to  stay  away  from  prayers,  and 
stayed  behind  when  the  rest  of  the  class  went  to 
the  prayer-room.  The  headmaster  came  in  and 
wished  to  drive  him,  and  those  who  had  remained 
with  him,  out.  John  answered  that  his  reHgion 
forbade  him  to  take  part  in  an  ahen  form  of  wor- 
ship. The  headmaster  said  one  must  observe 
law  and  order.  John  answered  that  Jews  were 
excused  attendance  at  prayers.  The  headmaster 
then  asked  him  for  the  sake  of  example  and  their 
former  friendship  to  be  present.  John  yielded. 
But  he  and  those  who  shared  his  views  did  not 
take  part  in  the  singing  of  the  psalms.  Then 
the  headmaster  was  infuriated,  and  gave  them  a 

scolding;  he  especially  singled  out  John,  and  up- 

248 


CKaracter  and  Destiny  249 

braided  him.  John's  answer  was  to  organise  a 
strike.  He  and  those  who  shared  his  views  came 
regularly  so  late  to  school  that  prayers  were  over 
when  they  entered.  If  they  happened  to  come  too 
early,  they  remained  in  the  corridor  and  waited, 
sitting  on  the  wooden  boxes  and  chatting  with 
the  teachers.  In  order  to  humble  the  rebels,  the 
headmaster  hit  upon  the  idea,  at  the  close  of 
prayers,  when  the  whole  school  was  assembled,  to 
open  the  doors  and  call  them  in.  These  then 
defiled  past  with  an  impudent  air  and  under  a 
hail  of  reproaches  through  the  prayer-room  with- 
out remaining  there.  Finally,  they  became  quite 
used  to  enter  of  their  own  accord,  and  take  their 
scolding  as  they  walked  through  the  room.  The 
headmaster  conceived  a  spite  against  John,  and 
seemed  to  have  the  intention  of  making  him  fail  in 
his  examination.  John,  on  the  other  hand,  worked 
day  and  night  in  order  to  be  sure  of  succeeding. 

His  theological  lessons  degenerated  into  argu- 
ments with  his  teacher.  The  latter  was  a  pastor 
and  theist,  and  tolerant  of  objections,  but  he  soon 
got  tired  of  them,  and  told  John  to  answer  accord- 
ing to  the  text-book. 

"How  many  Persons  are  in  the  Godhead?" 

he  asked. 


250  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

"One,"  answered  John. 

"What  does  Norbeck  say?" 

"Norbeck  says  three!" 

"Well,  then,  you  say  three,  too!" 

At  home  things  went  on  quietly.  John  was 
left  alone.  They  saw  that  he  was  lost,  and  that 
it  was  too  late  for  any  effectual  interference. 
One  Sunday  his  father  made  an  attempt  in  the 
old  style,  but  John  was  not  at  a  loss  for  an  answer. 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  church  any  more?"  his 
father  asked. 

"What  should  I  do  there?" 

"A  good  sermon  can  always  do  one  some  good. " 

"I  can  make  sermons  myself." 

And  there  was  an  end  of  it. 

The  pietists  had  a  special  prayer  offered  for 
John  in  the  Bethlehem  Church  after  they 
had  seen  him  one  Sunday  morning  in  volunteer 
uniform. 

In  May,  1867,  he  passed  his  final  examination. 
Strange  things  came  to  light  on  that  occasion. 
Great  fellows  with  beards  and  pince-nez  called 
the  Malay  Peninsula  Siberia,  and  believed  that 
India  was  Arabia.  Some  candidates  obtained  a 
testimonial  in  French  who  pronounced  "en"  like 
"y, "  and  could  not  conjugate  the  auxiliary  verbs. 


CHaracter  and  Destiny  251 

It  was  incredible.  John  believed  he  had  been 
stronger  in  Latin  three  years  before  this.  In 
history  everyone  of  them  would  have  failed,  if 
they  had  not  known  the  questions  beforehand. 
They  had  read  too  much  and  learned  too  little. 

The  examination  closed  with  a  prayer  which  a 
free-thinker  was  obliged  to  offer.  He  repeated  the 
Lord's  Prayer  stammeringly,  and  this  was  wrongly 
attributed  to  his  supposed  state  of  excitement. 
In  the  evening  John  was  taken  by  his  companions 
to  Storkyrkobrinken,  where  they  bought  him  a 
student's  white  cap,  for  he  had  no  money.  Then 
he  went  to  his  father's  office  to  give  him  the  good 
news.     He  met  him  in  the  hall. 

"Well!     Have  you  passed?"  said  his  father. 

"Yes." 

"And  already  bought  the  cap." 

"I  got  it  on  credit." 

"Go  to  the  cashier,  and  have  it  paid  for." 

So  they  parted.  No  congratulation !  No  pres- 
sure of  the  hand!  That  was  his  father's  Icelandic 
nature  which  could  not  give  vent  to  any  expres- 
sions of  tenderness. 

John  came  home  as  they  were  all  sitting  at 
supper.  He  was  in  a  merry  mood,  and  had 
drunk  punch.     But  his  spirits  were  soon  damped. 


252  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

All  were  silent.  His  brothers  and  sisters  did  not 
congratulate  him.  Then  he  became  out  of  hu- 
mour and  silent  also.  He  left  the  table  and  went  to 
rejoin  his  comrades  in  the  town.  There  there  was 
joy,  childish,  exaggerated  joy,  and  all  too  great 
hopes. 

During  the  summer  he  remained  at  home  and 
gave  lessons.  With  the  money  earned  he  hoped 
to  go  in  the  autumn  to  the  University  at  Upsala. 
Theology  attracted  him  no  more.  He  had  done 
with  it,  and,  moreover,  it  went  against  his  con- 
science to  take  the  ordination  vow. 

In  the  autumn  he  went  to  Upsala.  Old  Mar- 
garet packed  his  box,  and  put  in  cooking  utensils, 
and  a  knife  and  fork.  Then  she  obliged  him  to 
borrow  fifteen  kronas '  from  her.  From  his  father 
he  got  a  case  of  cigars,  and  an  exhortation  to  help 
himself.  He  himself  had  eighty  kronas,  which 
he  had  earned  by  giving  lessons,  and  with  which 
he  must  manage  to  get  through  his  first  term  at 
the  university. 

The  world  stood  open  for  him ;  he  had  the  ticket 
of  admission  in  his  hand.  He  had  nothing  to  do 
but  to  enter.     Only  that ! 

•  •••••• 

^  A  krona  is  worth  about  twenty-seven  cents. 


CHaracter  and  Destin  253 

"A  man's  character  is  his  destiny."  That  was 
then  a  common  and  favourite  proverb.  Now 
that  John  had  to  go  into  the  world,  he  employed 
much  time  in  attempting  to  cast  his  horoscope 
from  his  own  character,  which  he  thought  was 
already  fully  formed.  People  generally  bestow 
the  name  of  "a  character"  on  a  man  who  has 
sought  and  found  a  position,  taken  up  a  role, 
excogitated  certain  principles  of  behaviour,  and 
acts  accordingly  in  an  automatic  way. 

A  man  with  a  so-called  character  is  often  a 
simple  piece  of  mechanism;  he  has  often  only 
one  point  of  view  for  the  extremely  complicated 
relationships  of  life;  he  has  determined  to  cherish 
perpetually  certain  fixed  opinions  of  certain 
matters;  and  in  order  not  to  be  accused  of  " lack  of 
character,"  he  never  changes  his  opinion,  how- 
ever foolish  or  absurd  it  may  be.  Consequently, 
a  man  with  a  character  is  generally  a  very  ordi- 
nary individual,  and  what  may  be  called  a  little 
stupid.  "Character"  and  automaton  seem  often 
synonymous.  Dickens's  famous  characters  are 
puppets,  and  the  characters  on  the  stage  must 
be  automata.  A  well-drawn  character  is  synony- 
mous with  a  caricature.  John  had  formed  the 
habit    of    "proving    himself"    in    the    Christian 


254  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

fashion,  and  asked  himself  whether  he  had  such  a 
character  as  befitted  a  man  who  wished  to  make 
his  way  in  the  world. 

In  the  first  place,  he  was  revengeful.  A  boy 
had  once  openly  said,  by  the  Clara  Churchyard, 
that  John's  father  had  stood  in  the  pillory.  That 
was  an  insult  to  the  whole  family.  Since  John 
was  weaker  than  his  opponent,  he  caused  his  elder 
brother  to  execute  vengeance  with  him  on  the 
culprit,  by  bombarding  him  with  snowballs. 
They  carried  out  their  revenge  so  thoroughly, 
that  they  thrashed  the  culprit's  younger  brother 
who  was  innocent. 

So  he  must  be  revengeful.  That  was  a  serious 
charge.  He  began  to  consider  the  matter  more 
closely.  Had  he  revenged  himself  on  his  father 
or  his  step-mother  for  the  injustice  they  had  done 
him?     No;  he  forgot  all,  and  kept  out  of  the  way. 

Had  he  revenged  himself  on  his  school  teachers 
by  sending  them  boxes  full  of  stones  at  Christ- 
mas? No.  Was  he  really  so  severe  towards 
others,  and  so  hair-splitting  in  his  judgment  of 
their  conduct  towards  him?  Not  at  all;  he  was 
easy  to  get  on  with,  was  credulous,  and  could  be 
led  by  the  nose  in  every  kind  of  way,  provided  he 
did  not  detect  any  tyrannous  wish  to  oppress  in 


CKaracter  and  Destiny  255 

the  other  party.  By  various  promises  of  ex- 
change his  school-fellows  had  cajoled  away  from 
him  his  herbarium,  his  collection  of  beetles,  his 
chemical  apparatus,  his  adventure  books.  Had 
he  abused  or  diinned  them  for  payment?  No; 
he  felt  ashamed  on  their  account,  but  let  them 
be.  At  the  end  of  one  vacation  the  father  of  a 
boy  whom  John  had  been  teaching  forgot  to  pay 
him.  He  felt  ashamed  to  remind  him,  and  it  was 
not  till  half  a  year  had  elapsed,  that,  at  the  in- 
stigation of  his  own  father,  he  demanded  payment. 

It  was  a  peculiar  trait  of  John's  character,  that 
he  identified  himself  with  others,  suffered  for 
them,  and  felt  ashamed  on  their  behalf.  If  he 
had  lived  in  the  Middle  Ages,  he  would  have 
been  marked  with  the  stigmata.  If  one  of  his 
brothers  did  something  vulgar  or  stupid,  John 
felt  ashamed  for  him.  In  church  he  once  heard 
a  boys'  choir  sing  terribly  out  of  tune.  He  hid 
himself  in  the  pew  with  a  feeling  of  vicarious 
shame. 

Once  he  fought  with  a  school-fellow,  and  gave 
him  a  violent  blow  on  the  chest,  but  when  he  saw 
the  boy's  face  distorted  with  pain,  he  burst  into 
tears  and  reached  him  his  hand.  If  anyone  asked 
him  to  do  something  which  he  was  very  unwilling 


256  TKe  Son  of  a  Servant 

to  do,  he  suffered  on  behalf  of  the  one  with  whose 
request  he  could  not  comply. 

He  was  cowardly,  and  could  let  no  one  go  away 
unheard  for  fear  of  causing  discontent.  He  was 
still  afraid  of  the  dark,  of  dogs,  horses,  and  stran- 
gers. But  he  could  also  be  courageous  if  neces- 
sary, as  he  had  shown  by  rebelling  in  school, 
when  the  matter  concerned  his  final  examination, 
and  by  opposing  his  father. 

"A  man  without  religion  is  an  animal,"  say 
the  old  copybooks.  Now  that  it  has  been  dis- 
covered that  animals  are  the  most  religious  of 
creatures,  and  that  he  who  has  knowledge  does 
not  need  religion,  the  practical  efficacy  of  the 
latter  has  been  much  reduced.  By  placing  the 
source  of  his  strength  outside  himself,  he  had  lost 
strength  and  faith  in  himself.  Religion  had 
devoured  his  ego.  He  prayed  always,  and  at  all 
hours,  when  he  was  in  need.  He  prayed  at  school 
when  he  was  asked  questions;  at  the  card-table 
when  the  cards  were  dealt  out.  Religion  had 
spoilt  him,  for  it  had  educated  him  for  heaven 
instead  of  earth;  family  life  had  ruined  him  by 
educating  him  for  the  family  instead  of  for  society ; 
and  school  had  educated  him  for  the  university 
instead  of  for  life. 


CKaracter  and  Destiny  257 

He  was  irresolute  and  weak.  When  he  bought 
tobacco,  he  asked  his  friend  what  sort  he  should 
buy.  Thus  he  fell  into  his  friends'  power.  The 
consciousness  of  being  popular  drove  away  his 
fear  of  the  unknown,  and  friendship  strengthened 
him. 

He  was  a  prey  to  capricious  moods.  One  day, 
when  he  was  a  tutor  in  the  country,  he  came  into 
the  town  in  order  to  visit  Fritz.  When  he  got 
there  he  did  not  proceed  any  further,  but  remained 
at  home,  debating  with  himself  whether  he  should 
go  to  Fritz  or  not.  He  knew  that  his  friend  expected 
him,  and  he  himself  much  wished  to  see  him. 
But  he  did  not  go.  The  next  day  he  returned  to 
the  country,  and  wrote  a  melancholy  letter  to  his 
friend,  in  which  he  tried  to  explain  himself.  But 
Fritz  was  angry,  and  did  not  understand  caprices. 

In  all  his  weakness  he  sometimes  was  aware 

of  enormous  resources  of  strength,  which  made 

himself    believe    himself    capable    of    anything. 

When  he  was  twelve  his  brother  brought  home  a 

French  boys'  book  from  Paris.     John  said,  "We 

will  translate  that,  and  bring  it  out  at  Christmas. " 

They  did  translate  it,  but  as  they  did  not  know 

what  further  steps  to  take,  the  matter  dropped. 

An  Italian  grammar  fell  into  his  hands,  and 
17 


258  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

he  learned  Italian.  When  he  was  a  tutor  in  the 
country,  as  there  was  no  tailor  there,  he  under- 
took to  alter  a  pair  of  trousers.  He  opened  the 
seams,  altered  and  stitched  the  trousers,  and 
ironed  them  with  the  great  stable  key.  He  also 
mended  his  boots.  When  he  heard  his  sisters 
and  brothers  play  in  a  quartette,  he  was  never 
satisfied  with  the  performance.  He  would  have 
liked  to  jump  up,  to  snatch  the  instruments 
from  them,  and  to  show  them  how  they  ought 
to  play. 

John  had  learned  to  speak  the  truth.  Like  all 
children,  he  lied  in  his  defence  or  in  answer  to 
impertinent  questions,  but  he  found  a  brutal 
enjoyment,  during  a  conversation,  when  people 
were  trying  to  conceal  the  truth,  to  say  exactly 
what  all  thought.  At  a  ball,  where  he  was  very 
tactiturn,  a  lady  asked  him  if  he  liked  dancing. 

"No,  not  at  all,"  he  answered. 

"Well,  then,  why  do  you  dance?" 

"Because  I  am  obliged  to." 

He  had  stolen  apples,  like  all  boys,  and  that  did 
not  trouble  him;  he  made  no  secret  of  it.  It  was 
a  prescriptive  right.  In  the  school  he  had  never 
done  any  real  mischief.  Once,  on  the  last  day 
J^efore  the  close  of  the  term,  he  and  some  other 


CHaracter  and  Destiny  259 

boys  had  broken  off  some  clothes-pegs  and  torn  up 
some  old  exercise-books.  He  was  the  only  one 
seized  on  the  occasion.  It  was  a  mere  outbreak 
of  animal  spirits,  and  was  not  taken  seriously. 

Now,  when  he  was  passing  his  own  character 
under  review,  he  collected  other  people's  judg- 
ments on  himself,  and  was  astonished  at  the 
diversity  of  opinion  displayed.  His  father  con- 
sidered him  hard;  his  step-mother,  malicious;  his 
brothers,  eccentric.  Every  servant-maid  in  the 
house  had  a  different  opinion  of  him;  one  of  them 
liked  him,  and  thought  that  his  parents  treated 
him  ill;  his  lady  friend  thought  him  emotional; 
the  engineer  regarded  him  as  an  amiable  child,  and 
Fritz  considered  him  melancholy  and  self-willed. 
His  aunts  believed  he  had  a  good  heart ;  his  grand- 
mother that  he  had  character ;  the  girl  he  loved  idol- 
ised him ;  his  teachers  did  not  know  what  to  make 
of  him.  Towards  those  who  treated  him  roughly, 
he  was  rough ;  towards  his  friends,  friendly. 

John  asked  himself  whether  it  was  he  that  was  so 
many-sided,  or  the  opinions  about  him.  Was  he 
false?  Did  he  behave  to  some  differently  from  what 
he  did  to  others?  "Yes,"  said  his  step-mother. 
When  she  heard  anything  good  about  him,  she 
always  declared  that  he  was  acting  a  part. 


26o  THe  Son  of  a  Servant 

Yes,  but  all  acted  parts !  His  step-mother  was 
friendly  towards  her  husband,  hard  towards  her 
step-children,  soft  towards  her  own  child,  humble 
towards  the  landlord,  imperious  towards  the  ser- 
vants, polite  to  the  powerful,  rough  to  the  weak. 

That  was  the  "law  of  accommodation, "  of  which 
John  was  as  yet  unaware.  It  was  a  trait  in  human 
nature,  a  tendency  to  adapt  oneself — to  be  a  lion 
towards  enemies,  and  a  lamb  towards  friends, — 
which  rested  on  calculation. 

But  when  is  one  true,  and  when  is  one  false? 
And  where  is  to  be  found  the  central  "ego," — the 
core  of  character?  The  "ego"  was  a  complex  of 
impulses  and  desires,  some  of  which  were  to  be 
restrained,  and  others  unfettered.  John's  in- 
dividuality was  a  fairly  rich  but  chaotic  complex ; 
he  was  a  cross  of  two  entirely  different  strains  of 
blood,  with  a  good  deal  of  book-learning,  and  a 
variety  of  experience.  He  had  not  yet  found 
what  role  he  was  to  play,  nor  his  position  in  life, 
and  therefore  continued  to  be  characterless.  He 
had  not  yet  determined  which  of  his  impulses 
must  be  restrained,  and  how  much  of  his  "ego" 
must  be  sacrificed  for  the  society  into  which  he 
was  preparing  to  enter. 

If  he  had  really  been  able  to  view  himself  objec- 


CKaracter  and  Destiny  261 

tively,  he  would  have  found  that  most  of  the  words 
he  spoke  were  borrowed  from  books  or  from 
school-fellows,  his  gestures  from  teachers  and 
friends,  his  behaviour  from  relatives,  his  tempera- 
ment from  his  mother  and  wet-nurse,  his  tastes 
from  his  father,  perhaps  from  his  grandfather. 
His  face  had  no  resemblance  to  that  of  his  father 
or  mother.  Since  he  had  not  seen  his  grand- 
parents, he  could  not  judge  whether  there  was 
any  resemblance  to  them.  What,  then,  had  he 
of  his  own?  Nothing.  But  he  had  two  funda- 
mental characteristics,  which  largely  determined 
his  life  and  his  destiny. 

The  first  was  Doubt.  He  did  not  receive  ideas 
without  criticism,  but  developed  and  combined 
them.  Therefore  he  could  not  be  an  automaton, 
nor  find  a  place  in  ordered  society. 

The  second  was — Sensitiveness  to  pressure. 
He  always  tried  to  lessen  this  last,  in  the  first  place, 
by  raising  his  own  level ;  in  the  second,  by  criticis- 
ing what  was  above  him,  in  order  to  observe  that 
it  was  not  so  high  after  all,  nor  so  much  worth 
striving  after. 

So  he  stepped  out  into  life — in  order  to  develop 
himself,  and  still  ever  to  remain  as  he  was! 


The  Inferno 

By  August  Strindberg 

Author  of  "  Zones  of  the  Spirit,"  "  Son  of  a  Servant,"  etc. 
Translated  and  with  Introduction  by  Claud  Field 

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This  autobiographical  novel  is  one  of  the 
most  intimate  studies  of  personal  psychology 
that  has  been  offered  to  the  world.  It  is  as 
appallingly  frank,  as  unsparingly  veracious  as 
anything  this  gifted  but  erratic  genius  has  pro- 
duced. It  has  to  do  with  a  period  of  Strindberg's 
life  when  he  plunged  into  scientific  speculation 
and  experimentation,  and  believed  himself  in 
possession  of  the  solution  of  some  of  the  most 
sought-after  and  baffling  of  Nature's  mysteries. 
His  health,  through  prolonged  labor  and  an  un- 
natural mode  of  life,  became  more  and  more 
impaired,  his  mental  state  more  and  more  ab- 
normal. It  is  the  hostile  impressions  of  life 
experienced  during  this  period  that  the  author 
describes  in  the  pages  of  The  Inferno  with  all 
the  power  of  his  sombre  genius. 


G.  P.  Putnam's   Sons 
New  York  London 


Zones   of  the   Spirit 

By  August  Strindberg 

Author  of  "The  Infemo,"  "The  Son  of  a  Servant,"  etc. 

Translated  by  Claud  Field 

With  Introduction  by  Arthur  Babilotte 

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This  volume  is  translated  from  Strindberg's 
latest  important  work,  Das  BlattoBach,  a  book  of 
amazing  copiousness  and  originality.  Regarding 
it,  the  Norwegian  Nils  Kjaer  wrote:  "More 
comprehensive  than  any  modern  collection  of 
aphorisms,  chaotic  as  the  Koran,  wrathful  as 
Isaiah,  as  full  of  occult  things  as  the  Bible, 
more  entertaining  than  any  romance,  keener- 
edged  than  most  pamphlets,  mystical  as  the  Cab- 
bala, subtle  as  the  scholastic  theology,  sincere  as 
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claims his  faith,  as  pugnaciously  as  though  he 
were  a  descendant  of  the  hero  of  Lutzen." 


G.  P.  Putnam^s  Sons 

New  York  London 


New  and  Enlarged  Edition 

DE   PROFUNDIS 

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mind.  It  must  be  approached,  as  every  great  work  of 
genius  should  be  approached,  in  an  intellectual  mood 
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and  then  to  write  as  he  has  written,  is  not  the  least  of  his 
great  achievements." — Boston  Transcript 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


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